Memoir
by HappinessIsaWarmSociopath
Summary: Life is terrible, messy, and has a nasty habit of driving you to the person you need most and taking them away again before you can blink twice. Julia Fields never expected to meet someone as extraordinarily brilliant as Sherlock Holmes. Nor did she expect someone like him to leave such an impact on her world. Slow, realistic Sherlock/OC with some new mysteries and some canon.
1. Reflection

**Memoir**

**A/N: This is my first Sherlock story (I have vast amounts of material in other fandoms that will probably never be published), so go easy. Just going to go ahead and warn you that this is in first person and is going to be as realistic as possible. Sherlock will not be madly in love by chapter 5 or even chapter 15, and you won't be finding any Mary Sues. Rest assured. I want to do this right and it's going to take time. There will be sexual content in much later chapters, some graphic violence, drug use, and lots of bad language so please proceed with caution. And leave a review! A writer can't improve without outside opinions. Thanks, and enjoy the story!**

**Chapter 1: Reflection**

So this is pretty hard for me to write. Scratch that; it's the hardest thing I've done in my whole fucking life. I haven't actively thought about what happened in a year, so it's all a bit rusty. I've gotten very good at not remembering the bad stuff and I would be perfectly content to stay that way. But my therapist insists that I'm "emotionally repressed" and writing about my experience will help. Really, honestly writing and I'm not supposed to worry about perfecting my prose or sounding sophisticated and shit. But I have to, because I'm a writer. Or I was a writer, before an unbearable prat with a designer wardrobe and endless limbs came along and uprooted my entire fucking life. But I'll get into that later. This little preface is just to say that anyone reading this shouldn't expect too much. I'm tired, I'm sick of trying too damn hard, and I'm really fucking sick of life at the moment so if you want to offer some criticism of my admittedly out of practice writing skills, try to be nice about it. Or just fuck off. Whichever you prefer.

…Sorry. Don't fuck off. Stay and read if you want. I can't promise that it will be a particularly rewarding experience, because I'm certainly not Hemmingway or Ginsberg. But I think my story is pretty interesting, so you might want to consider. How many people can say they fell into an insane, inane, all-consuming love with a sociopathic dickhead entirely incapable of returning the emotion? Sort of entirely incapable. I'm getting to it. But anyway, life is terrible and messy and has a nasty habit of driving you to the person you need exactly when you need them and taking them away again before you can blink twice. And if the person you need happens to be an asshole in a long coat with a penchant for breaking people, well, what the hell are you gonna do? I'm going to stop rambling now and start my story. But it doesn't have a happy ending; so if you aren't interested in anything except sunshine and rainbows and unicorns shitting butterflies, turn back now.

Two years ago, I got into a bit of a bad space. Okay, more than a bit. In my senior year of high school, my tech-savvy, artistic and absolutely lovely boyfriend found a way to purchase hallucinogens including an imaginative variety of outdated psychedelics without the hassle of finding a good dealer. At the time, I had no idea the deep web even existed, let alone hidden services that could be perused entirely anonymously without any traffic monitoring. My boyfriend's drugs arrived neatly tucked away in perfectly ordinary boxes but I quickly cottoned on that something wasn't entirely right. His delirious talk of breathing walls and sparkling surfaces didn't frighten me. I was intrigued, and when he added 300 micrograms of acid to the sugar in my coffee I didn't protest.

Long story short, I was quickly addicted. Not physically addicted, but mentally. My writing career took off. Even the occasional bad trip supplied me with a plethora of nightmarish, dazzling ideas that soon materialized in a collection of publishable short stories. Before long, I was entirely dependent on the trips for writing material. I thought I was incapable of thinking up anything really brilliant on my own. My boyfriend's death crushed my high spirits but certainly not my dependency. My drug use escalated beyond hallucinogens and on to opiates. I lost a shit load of weight, I couldn't concentrate on my schoolwork, and I made no effort to move out of my parents' home. I barely managed to graduate from high school and spent the next two years of my life doing absolutely nothing. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat. I could barely even write. My parents realized what was going on pretty quickly and promptly gave me an incentive to get clean. My mother's exact words were:

"Sweetie, we love you, but you look about thirty and not a very pretty thirty at that."

"And you won't even make it to thirty if you carry on like this," my father added, fixing me with an icily judgmental stare I had, unfortunately, inherited.

"You were making plans to go to London before all _this_," my mother said sadly, unable to bring herself to say "addiction". "You can still go, you know. A change of scenery would do you well. You can write in a new environment, explore the art scene a bit. Just get clean, and we'll fund everything for you."

That was the selling point for me. It was true that I had wanted to visit London. I would've been happy to go anywhere to escape Tucson, but money was an issue and I didn't want to ask my parents for financial aid. They wouldn't have helped me if I'd asked, what with the shitty life choices I was making at the moment. But here mother was, extending the offer of freedom without any stress over expense. I couldn't refuse that. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life surrounded by elderly right-wing nutters, and here was my chance. If I had to pull my shit together in order to make that happen, so be it.

Rehab was terrible, withdrawal was a living nightmare, and for a while I seriously thought even dying would be a better option. But I made it, and I found myself on a flight to London with a hefty sum of money in my bank account. I could pay for a plush, posh pad suited for fancy parties and the like, but I hated parties with a passion and no London socialite would want to associate with a struggling Midwestern writer anyway. I found a cheap room in a hotel that most certainly had rats in the walls and a shady manager rather lacking in teeth until I could find a nice apartment for rent. I spent a bit of time wandering the outskirts of London, scanning every paper I got my hands on for prospective housing. After a week of searching, I stumbled upon the promising ad I'd been looking for:

_Small, well-furnished basement flat for rent. Interested persons must have a tolerance for the damp, cooler temperatures, and loud noises at all hours. Well-priced, so don't miss out! Please contact Martha Hudson at 020-7833-402._

I dialed Martha Hudson that afternoon and was pleasantly surprised to hear the voice of a kindly older woman over the phone.

"Hello, Martha Hudson speaking."

"Hi," I said, making a conscious effort not to stutter. "I'm calling about the basement flat for rent. Is it still available?"

"Oh, yes! It most certainly is!" I had the distinct impression Martha Hudson hadn't gotten too many offers on her flat which probably meant it would sell pretty cheap. Definitely good news for me. "What's your name, dear? I can put you down for an appointment, if you'd like to take a look."

That was clearly an attempt to curb her previous enthusiasm. Made it seem like there were lots of prospects dying for a tour.

"That would be lovely," I said sweetly. "And my name is Julia Fields."

"Julia Fields? I'm sure I've heard that name before…" She searched for the memory and came up empty. "Oh dear, I can't place it. No matter though. Would you like to come by tomorrow afternoon? Anytime is fine for me, I'm not busy."

She gave me the address (221c Baker Street) and wished me a good afternoon. I was elated. The flat was already furnished, so if there were no other offers (and I expected there weren't) I would be able to move straight in. Not another day sleeping in a dingy hotel room marked with every bodily fluid imaginable (I had seen those black-light hotel search programs and there was a suspicious white crust stain on the duvet). The next afternoon, I headed to Baker Street, breathing in the London drizzle and feeling the wind on my cheeks. It was a welcome change from the dusty heat of Arizona. My new flat turned out to be in a lovely little complex snuggled in cozily with a cute café. I was immediately hooked and rang the doorbell eagerly.

Martha Hudson opened the door with a smile. She seemed nice enough and had none of the horrid old-lady mothball smell that permeated from the conservative snowbirds that infiltrated Tucson every winter. I caught a whiff of a fresh, flowery perfume as she showed me down the dimly lit hall, chattering away happily.

"I figured out where I heard your name," she said, unlocking the door to 221c, "You write those horror stories. I've read a few. Beautiful writing but a bit disturbing, if you don't mind my saying. Then again, you need an appreciation of the disturbing to live here, I think. The boys upstairs can be a bit difficult. Unnatural noises and smells at ungodly hours of the night. It's enough to scare anyone away."

"Noise is fine," I said honestly. Tucson was quiet and very dark. I always thought the silence felt like the whole city holding its breath. It was an uneasy feeling. Having spent several nights in London already proved that wasn't the case here. There were always car noises, people noises, and city noises. I never felt alone.

"I'm glad you think so dear," said Martha Hudson, holding the door open for me. "It gets a bit chilly down here so you may need to bundle up if you take the flat."

"Chilly is fine." The flat looked like something out of a book, with its rain-stained walls and musty secretive smell. The furniture was worn and threadbare and there was a suspicious stain marring the base of the fireplace. It reminded me of the prison room in "The Yellow Wallpaper", except no one was forcing me to stay here. I wanted to confine myself in this eerie, smelly room and write stories about the shapes moving in the patterns on the wall all of my own free will. The very thought gave me shivers. "It's beautiful."

Martha Hudson looked at me oddly. "Do you really think so? All the other ones seemed to think it was ugly, and I must say I agree with them. We had a bit of leak during a bad storm a few months back and the walls haven't been the same since."

"It has a story to tell." The statement sounded like complete bullshit the second it left my mouth, but there was a mystery about the room that was luring me. I wanted to move in as soon as possible and told Martha Hudson as much.

"Oh, wonderful dear! I was afraid I'd never sell this musty old flat. Would you like tea and biscuits before you leave? You look a bit peaky. Mind, I'm not your housekeeper but one time wouldn't hurt…"

The tea was pleasantly spicy and the biscuits melted on my tongue. Mrs. Hudson (as she told me I was to address her) went on about how lovely it would be to have another lady in the flat because even though she loved the boys upstairs she did grow lonely without anyone to talk to about the delicate things in life. I left euphoric and moved in the next day. It didn't take me long to sort out the few possessions I had brought with me from Arizona (clothes too expensive to leave behind, books I couldn't live without, and essential toiletries and dishes). I bought everything else, feeling every new purchase added a little more security to my fresh start.

I spent my first two weeks in my new flat writing furiously, concocting a story for every peel in the paint and stain on the rug in my new home. I didn't sleep much; the tenants upstairs were unfailingly noisy and incredibly interesting. All sorts of fascinating noises wafted down to my flat and kept me up at all hours. There was shouting, banging, the strains of a violin, and once I thought I heard gunshots. I liked writing different scenarios for each sound I heard. Sometimes, one of the tenants was a serial killer who shot his victims and sliced through their flesh with his violin bow before dissolving the limbs in a hydrochloric acid bath. The stain on the fireplace came from his murder of the previous tenant, and it was only so long before he came after me. Other times, one was a famous virtuoso living with a partner who couldn't bear the sound of music, hence the shouting and banging at all hours of the night.

During the second week, my self-imposed isolation led to a severe boredom that tricked my brain into triggering hallucinations. I knew better than to think they were flashbacks but I did my best to fuel them, consuming gratuitous amounts of caffeine and spending hours staring blankly at the walls until they started breathing. The patterns became insects crawling madly in search of some hidden sweet thing and the colors warped and mutated sluggishly, pulsing in and out of focus in time with my heartbeat. Eventually, if I stared long enough, the fiber carpet would sparkle. The visions were nothing like my dazzled, acid-soaked daydreams, but they were good enough and when I finally pulled myself through the words flew from my fingers.

Mrs. Hudson walked in on me in one such state, folded on the floor with my dark blonde hair swinging around me in a shield. I think the blankness in my eyes startled her a bit and she nearly dropped the lunch tray she was carrying. She shook me out of my trance and asked me if I was on something, to which I replied honestly that I wasn't.

"You remind me of Sherlock," she said with a little shake of her head. "He's an odd one too. Spends hours just staring into space in that mind palace of his. You'd get along well with him, I think. And John. But everyone gets along well with John. Lovely man, and very sweet. I'll introduce you."

"That's alright, Mrs. Hudson," I said with a strained smile, carefully rising from my position on the floor to accept the lunch she had brought me. For all her insistence that she wasn't my housekeeper, she seemed to genuinely enjoy bringing me little treats and mothering me a bit. I didn't mind. It was nice having someone look after me. "I don't do well in social situations." I had a tendency to ignore what people said unless it was pertinent to me or I wanted to discuss it myself. Otherwise I just went off into my own little world and ignored them.

"Yes, neither does Sherlock. He's very smart and very stubborn. And has absolutely no sense of social boundaries, bless him."

Now that I had names for my mystery tenants upstairs, I could decide who was who in my little scenarios. Smart, stubborn Sherlock was always the nefarious serial killer or the violin virtuoso and John was the sweeter than honey and yet gently disapproving partner. Soon, I had a voice to assign to one of them when I overheard Mrs. Hudson quietly talking with a man I decided had to be John Watson. His was an average smooth tenor, and I had decided that anyone with a name like Sherlock had to have an exotic voice to match.

"Really?" the man who had to be John asked politely, "I had no idea anyone had moved in. They're very quiet, aren't they?"

"Yes, she is," said Mrs. Hudson, "She doesn't go out much, says she doesn't do well with other people. I asked if she wanted to be introduced to you two but she said no. Not that I can blame her. Sherlock can be a bit intimidating, can't he?"

"He can," John agreed, and I felt a brief surge of triumph at correctly deducing the owner of the voice. "What's her name?"

"Julia. Julia Fields. She writes those short stories. Have you read any? They're very good. A bit eerie, but excellent writing."

"No, I can't say I have. I'll look her up," John said in a way that indicated he definitely wouldn't be looking me up.

"She's a funny one," Mrs. Hudson mused, "Sometimes I go down to bring her tea—She loves my biscuits—And she'll just be sitting there on the floor staring at something I can't see. It's strange. But she's a sweet girl."

I stopped listening after that, wondering if Mrs. Hudson thought I was crazy and found I didn't care either way. She was sweet herself but people would think what they pleased and there was nothing I could do about it. At least Sherlock upstairs sounded just as odd, if not more. Who fires a gun at three in the morning anyway? I retreated back into my lair, wondering if I would ever meet the two funny men upstairs.

As it happened, I would be blessed with the opportunity not three days later after deciding to acquire a job and not live off my parents' generosity forever. The task proved more difficult than I originally anticipated, not because I wasn't qualified to serve drinks or wait tables, but simply because I was a small town girl in a big city and had no idea how to fend for myself. I had never taken the subway in my life, my map skills were nil, and I possessed the street smarts of a bichon frise. I was a spoiled, impractical girl with wealthy parents and I had never been completely on my own before. Still, I needed money that wasn't gifted as a reward for not accidentally killing myself. When I finally left my flat for something other than grocery shopping, I did make more of an effort. I threw on my nicest sweater, braided my hair and even put on a bit of make up. It didn't make much of a difference aesthetically but at least I felt better armed to face the big bad world.

Standing outside 221b, I found myself faced with a fresh conundrum. I had absolutely no fucking idea where I could go. I knew no one except Mrs. Hudson and two bodiless voices upstairs; my eyes were exceptionally sensitive from days of staring at the wall or computer screen and even the grey London sky was too bright for my poor head to handle. As I attempted to gather my scrambled vision, fate intervened, shoving my two mystery men out the door and straight into my path. The shorter of the two, armed with the blandest sweater I had ever seen and a stance that commanded authority, did a double take when he saw me.

"Hullo," he greeted, giving me a smile that required immediate reciprocation. "You must be the girl living downstairs. Julia, isn't it?"

At my nod he extended a hand. I took it gladly, noting that his grip was even firmer than his bearing. Military, perhaps? His hair was cropped neatly and he had the build for it. Might as well ask. Just another fact to add to my private story world.

"Were you in the military?"

John smiled in earnest surprise. He glanced at his tall, dark partner, whose face was still hidden by the upturned collar of his coat.

"Yes actually, but you aren't the first to guess."

I shrugged, settling into the familiar awkwardness that always came with new people. I never understood how some girls could go up to anyone and strike up a meaningful conversation. I didn't know anything about these strangers (well, nothing real) so what was I supposed to say? I had no idea if John expected anything more than a perfunctory greeting. Thankfully, the need to speak further was absolved when Sherlock (so I assumed) interrupted.

"How long have you been clean?"

Ohh. I was right. This man had a voice perfectly suited to recording racy audiobooks or operating a phone sex hotline. Not that I was interested in either of the two. Ahem. His dark-chocolate voice took me so off guard; it was a second before I registered his question. My mouth fell open, and before I could think better of it, I answered.

"Three months. You?"

He finally turned his narrowed his eyes to me, and my breath caught in my throat. This man was, to put it simply, stunning. He had dark curls, a cupid's bow I immediately envied, ridiculously chiseled cheekbones and eyes the exact color of the sky after a rainstorm. I was so taken aback it took me a second to realize what I had just asked. Where the hell had that come from? I had absolutely no way of knowing whether or not this man was a fellow former addict, but the question had fallen out of my mouth anyways. Feeling extremely foolish, I resolved to keep my big mouth shut.

"Cocaine, correct?" he asked, seemingly unbothered and ignoring John's pointed elbow in his ribs. His eyes scanned me, taking in my messy braid, slightly askew sweater, and wrinkled skirt. There was nothing sexual in the least about his gaze but I folded my arms protectively over my chest anyway, keeping my eyes on my faded blue converse.

"No, actually," I said brightly, wondering how the hell I was managing to answer without choking. Who did this man think he was? "Not that it's any of your business."

"Are you settling in easily then?" John said quickly, launching into damage control mode. "Mrs. Hudson mentioned you were from America. That's a pretty big change."

"Yes, it was," I answered easily. Somehow, serial killer, virtuoso, socially awkward Sherlock had broken the ice with his nosiness. I actually relaxed. "I'm currently taking advantage of my parents' generosity. Hopefully not for much longer. I'm trying to find a job. Supporting a writing career is pretty difficult without outside help."

I didn't mention the fact that I could barely find my way to the nearest supermarket, let alone secure a well-paying job. It was one of the many disadvantages of being spoiled my entire life. But no one liked a clueless rich girl and I dutifully kept my mouth shut until Sherlock smiled and drew a worn postcard from one cashmere wool blend pocket.

"You could try this. If my information is correct, one of their maintenance staff just retired. It's not particularly stimulating but—"

"Why are you giving me this?" I interrupted, examining the postcard warily. _National Antiquities Museum_. Hmm. It was a generous offer, but this man had absolutely no reason to extend a helping hand. And I wasn't dull enough to miss the purposeful softening of his rumbling baritone and kinder eyes.

"It's the neighborly thing to do, isn't it?" he said with a lightness that didn't suit him. "You do live downstairs."

"Why are you giving me this?" I repeated, determined not to let this man push me around. "I really don't like being manipulated."

Sherlock's whole demeanor changed in an instant, and I couldn't help but feel a bit woozy at the sudden drop in temperature that accompanied it. His pale, peculiar eyes went from inviting to icy and he stopped bothering to smile.

"I need access to the museum for reasons I won't disclose to you. It will be much easier if I have an ally working there. If you're willing, I'll pay you a reasonable sum for your assistance."

"That won't be necessary," I said, trying to sound cheerful. I had no idea why this man wanted access to a bunch of antiques, but my mind instantly went to work crafting images of him slinking around glass cases like a shadow, a magnifying glass in hand. "I'll do it for free."

"That's very…generous of you," John said hesitantly, clearly not expecting my immediate cooperation. I couldn't say I blamed him. Three years ago I might have turned away and found a new flat, but now I was desperately craving some sort of distraction. In any case, examining antiques was more productive than staring at walls. Maybe I would actually learn something useful.

"Yes, it is," I agreed. John nodded, but Sherlock seemed to have entirely lost interest in my existence. They were in a cab before I could blink, speeding off without so much as a thank you. I stood numbly, the shock of a complete stranger guessing my drug habits, offering me a job, and eluding to a secret operation finally setting in. I wondered if I had finally gone of the deep end and decided quickly that the wondering was futile. If I had, it was doubtful I would realize it now. I gave up on finding my way to the tube, hailing a cab of my own instead. Fuck it, I sort of had a job now. After the morning I had, I deserved an easy trip.

I got the job. Unfortunately, it turned out to consist mostly of scrubbing, dusting, and filing from 4:00 to 6:00 each day. The retired girl, Soo Lin Yao, had been a Chinese pottery expert in addition to maintenance. I possessed none of her qualifications and wasn't trusted to handle centuries-old teapots so I went on scrubbing, dusting, and filing. On the bright side, the dusting included display cases with all sorts of fascinating objects, and I had plenty to be curious about. Just contemplating how many pairs of hands had handled each piece of Edwardian silverware or Byzantine vase was enough to keep me occupied. And of course the marble-coated museum itself was stunning. I went about my business as peacefully as possible, but there was always a niggling doubt in the back of my mind that Sherlock was looking for something here, and I was a tool he was going to use to find it.

I looked him up the night after I acquired the job and found both his website, _The Science of Deduction,_ and John Watson's blog. I read about Sherlock Holmes' extraordinary career with no small amount of incredulity, wondering how it was possible for someone to be so damn intelligent. John was a good writer. Not great, but definitely good enough to hook me, and I found myself rereading A Study in Pink at least five times.

I didn't make many friends among the museum staff. Most seemed content to ignore me while I went about my lesser duties of scrubbing, dusting and filing, and I couldn't help but be relieved when another one of the maintenance workers, an awkwardly friendly bloke with too little chin, approached me after work on my third day.

"Fields! You're the one replacing Soo Lin, right?"

I looked up, scanning his nametag with interest. _Andy Galbraith._

"Sort of. I take care of organization and other necessary evils. No Chinese pottery for me," I said brightly. "And just Julia's fine."

"Er, sure," said Andy, shifting awkwardly. I got the impression he liked talking to girls but never knew how. "You're wanted in the security locker. Soo Lin left some of her things and they need to be cleared out and taken to the lost and found. We were gonna wait a few days, see if she came back, right? But no one's heard from her."

"Do you know what happened to her?" I asked, frowning. Maybe Soo Lin had something to do with the puzzle Sherlock had hinted at. Retrieving her things might reveal something important. Not that I cared about impressing Sherlock Holmes. "It's a bit odd, isn't it? Leaving her things behind."

"That's what I said!" exclaimed Andy. "But no one will listen to me. I can come with you, if you want, that is. All the lockers look the same."

"Great," I said distractedly, allowing him to lead me in the direction of the lockers. "So what did she do the day she left? Did she show any indication of wanting to leave or do anything odd?"

"No, not at all," Andy said. He thought for a moment and his expression turned sheepish. "Well, I asked her out and she refused. But that wasn't unusual," he muttered.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"It's fine," he said with a genuine smile. "She did her tea ceremony as usual. Then she came in here—" He shoved open the doors, revealing rows of lockers. The light flickered on, illuminating something odd at the end of the hall. I approached warily, nearly tuning out Andy. "And packed up for the day. That's it. Hers is right…holy shit."

I couldn't have agreed more. A lone statue, standing proud in a sea of sheet-covered relics, looked down sadly upon us. The yellow paint mark staining the marble was unrecognizable to me, but that didn't change the fact that it definitely wasn't supposed to be there. I knew, in an instant, that it had something to do with whatever Sherlock was looking for and acted thusly. Andy didn't even protest when I withdrew my phone and snapped a photo, and by the time he came out of shock I was already opening the door.

"Hey, you can't do that!" I turned back to him with a withering glare.

"You might want to make sure no one else sees that. It wouldn't do your salary any favors if the public knew someone was defacing priceless artifacts after hours."

Andy Galbraith just gaped, and I took that as my cue to get the hell out of there. I had one purpose: Get back to 221b, show the picture to Sherlock, let him do his work. Mrs. Hudson was taking out the trash when I burst into the hallway. She looked earnestly surprised, as if me leaving my den and venturing out into the world was an anomaly in itself.

"Hello dear! It _is _nice to see you getting out and about. John mentioned Sherlock had found you a job, bless him. How is that coming along?"

"Fine," I said absently, phone clutched in one sweaty fist. "Are John and Sherlock in?"

"Yes, just upstairs. On a case, in fact. They've been rushing in and out all day. I'm glad you're getting along well with them. Sherlock seems so lonely sometimes—John's done him wonders of course, but it's nice to see him making an effort with a lady."

I almost laughed at that. I suppose finding me a job could be considered making an effort—If he didn't have ulterior motives and wasn't only using me as a puzzle piece in his case. I rushed up the stairs and barged straight into 221b without bothering to knock, mildly surprised that the door was unlocked. It took me a moment to register John's presence on the couch—I was too busy taking in the rest of the flat. There was steer skull lamp mounted on the wall, a _human _skull on the mantelpiece above a lovely old fashioned fireplace, and plenty of intellectual clutter that only added to the charm. It was a good deal nicer than my own flat. I turned towards John, remembering my original purpose.

"John, where's Sherlock?" I asked. John's eyebrows inched towards his hairline.

"Just in the kitchen. Did you need something?"

I ignored the question and crossed to the kitchen, where Sherlock was perched at the table staring intently at his laptop. The table was cluttered with a variety of test tubes and petri dishes as well as photographs of graffiti that looked awfully similar to the mark on the statue. Sherlock didn't register my presence but I blundered on ahead, holding my phone up triumphantly.

"I know you can't tell me why you need an ally at the National Antiquities Museum, but I found something interesting you might want to see." That got his attention. He scanned the picture for a moment and leapt out of the chair like a silk-wrapped rocket.

"Come along, John, we've found our cipher. Soo Lin Yao is definitely the marked woman this time," he called, slinging on his coat and scarf. "She'll be dead before the night is through if we don't hurry."

"Wait, where are we going?" John asked just as I said, "Soo Lin Yao? She's the one that just retired. Was the graffiti a threat then?"

"Yes, yes, exactly!" Sherlock said impatiently. "No time to waste. You need to come too," he added, throwing a long finger in my direction. "Show us exactly where you found the message."

I stood numbly, not quite sure which was more surprising: That this strange, offensive man was requesting _my _presence or that I had stumbled upon something that marked poor Soo Lin Yao as a dead woman walking. Sherlock Holmes had no patience for my surprise. He circled a hand around my wrist and yanked me along after him, leaving John to tag behind. We were in a cab within a minute; me squeezed awkwardly in between the two men. I sat in contemplative silence, wondering what the hell was going on. Sherlock ignored me, but John made an attempt at conversation.

"Do you like the job then?"

"Mmm? Oh, yes, I adore it. Filing is one of my favorite activities." I winced the second I said it. John didn't deserve my bitterness. "Sorry, that was bitchy. I'm really grateful I have it. It's nice being able to support myself."

"And you're a writer," John prompted, looking at me expectantly. I grimaced, not wanting to explain the massive writer's block that had prevented me from publishing anything in four months, nor did I feel the need to allude to my dependence on LSD for material.

"Er, yeah. But it's not really a career so much as a hobby."

"What do you write?" asked John, "Mrs. Hudson said some of your stuff was pretty creepy."

I smirked at that. "I write short stories. Magic realism with a good touch of horror, usually."

"Ah," said John in way that indicated magic realism wasn't his cup of tea. I was unsurprised. He didn't seem like the type to live in a fantasy world. Sherlock let out a huff of frustration.

"If you wouldn't mind focusing on the case, John."

"You can't tell me anything?" I asked, letting my curiosity get the better of me. I desperately wanted to know what the mark meant, but Sherlock seemed disinclined to tell me.

"No," he said shortly just as we arrived at the museum. "We're here. Show us where you found the message and don't ask questions."

"You're welcome," I muttered, shivering a bit at the onslaught of London night chill. I really needed to invest in a good coat. John and Sherlock followed me silently through the deserted museum, taking little heed to the eerie shadows cast by the rows of glass cases and moonlight streaming through the yawning windows. I was less unaffected and couldn't help thinking that the whole thing could be a scene straight from a horror film.

"Just through here," I whispered, shoving open the double doors leading to the security lockers. The statue in question was barely visible at the end of the hallway, but Sherlock had clearly already seen the graffiti. He strode forward with enviable confidence to examine the yellow marks.

"It's the same paint," he told John, completely ignoring me. "But we have a more pressing matter to consider. We aren't alone."

I think my heart actually stopped beating for a second when he said those words. I stood still as the painted statue, hardly daring to breathe, and sure enough my ears caught the slight chink of ceramic and a rustling of fabric. Sherlock glided forward silent as a shadow and _dear god_ what was it about this man that turned my brain to poetic mush? I slunk after him, telling myself firmly that I had bigger things to worry about than a pretty man in a nice coat. Sherlock seemed to know where to go, cracking open a door I didn't recognize. John followed suite, leaving me to squeeze in after him, craning my neck desperately to see what was going on.

Silence. Then a gasp and soft thud.

"Centuries old. Don't want to drop that." A light flickered on, illuminating a head of lustrous black hair and freshly glistening teapot. The girl seated at the fine mahogany table was very pretty indeed, with lovely dark slanting eyes and Angelina Jolie lips. Sherlock handed her back her teapot with an uncharacteristic smile.

"Hello," he said. The mystery girl didn't respond. I let out an involuntary gasp, realizing that this must be the enigmatic Soo Lin Yao. But what the hell was she doing sneaking around here late at night anyway? John looked similarly puzzled and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, extending a hand. Soon Lin Yao took it gingerly, eyes wide. "This is Doctor John Watson and…?"

"Julia Fields," I interjected, mildly offended that he had forgotten my name already. Not that I had done anything brilliant enough to make an impression. "I took over your maintenance work after you retired. They don't trust me with the tea ceremony, and probably for good reason," I added, ignoring Sherlock's annoyed glance. Soo Lin Yao cracked a smile, but it disappeared the second Sherlock reopened his mouth.

"We need to have a little chat."

**Love it, hate it, feel free to tell me! Make a girl's day and leave a review. You know you want to—Just click the button! ;)**


	2. Deductions

**A/N: Firstly, thanks so much to LadyInAzure, rycbar15, and xxz0eyxx for reviewing. I'm sure you guys can sympathize with how nerve-wracking it is posting a new story, and getting those initial reviews makes the world to me. I'm super glad some people are interested and I really want to hear your feedback, so please read and review! I also wanted to note that Julia's involvement in the cases will be coming soon, but not quite yet. It always struck me as unrealistic that Sherlock would let some random girl tag along after him on his cases without proving her usefulness. I want this story to be realistic, and that means things have to move a little more slowly. Eventually you'll get your mysteries and romance, but I have to build up character relationships a bit first.**

**Disclaimer: The original Sherlock Holmes stories and characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Everything affiliated with the BBC show belong to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss and whoever else is in charge over there.**

**Chapter 2: Deductions**

Sherlock Holmes lost any microscopic interest he initially had in me the second Soo Lin Yao appeared. To be fair, I found her intriguing too, and I won't deny that her pink pout and lustrous hair had something to do with my own fascination, not to mention the fact that she was sneaking around the museum at night taking care of ancient pottery. I staid back, hoping if I remained inconspicuous Sherlock might forget I was there and let me stay. No such luck. He didn't dawdle for a second with the oh-so-important task of informing me I wasn't wanted.

"You are no longer needed," he said without turning to me, examining Soo Lin Yao with cold eyes. "The door didn't automatically lock, so you should have no trouble finding your way out."

It took me a painful second to comprehend what he was saying, and when I did I was shocked anyone could be so rude. I had showed him the graffiti, which had clearly been important to whatever case he was working on, and I didn't even get a speck of recognition or thanks. It was late though. I was tired, and I didn't want to argue with a practical stranger over something that didn't even matter to me. I was curious about the cipher, sure, but not enough to go up against the great Sherlock Holmes. And John would probably blog about whatever it was they were doing sooner or later. I could read about it then, if I was still interested. But I had no intention of letting Sherlock push me around, and if I left it would be on my own terms.

"Okay," I said calmly, "I can understand why you wouldn't want me interfering. But I didn't bring any money with me and don't have a way of getting home. I didn't have to come out here and show you this. Cab fare is pretty reasonable compensation for my trouble, I think."

Sherlock turned and looked at me then and, with a grimace of upmost contempt, extracted a twenty-pound note. John smiled softly, probably thanking his lucky stars that Sherlock had done the responsible thing and not left him to pay for my transportation.

"This should suffice," said Sherlock, shoving the money at me with the same determined scowl. I took it happily, grateful I wouldn't have to resort to the tube to find my way home. I hadn't had to cram myself in a carriage with a bunch of strangers yet, and I didn't want to start today.

"A thank you would be nice too," I added as an afterthought, "But I suppose that would be too much to ask for."

Sherlock looked like he seriously wanted to say yes, it most certainly was, but John gave him a glare of such severe disapproval that he spat out a thank you through tightly gritted teeth. I knew that was all I was going to get, and if I left then without protest maybe Sherlock wouldn't think ill of me. I preferred his icy indifference to outright hostility. I left the museum without having to be told again, wondering idly what the yellow graffiti could possibly mean and cursing that I wouldn't be able to find out for a good long while, if ever. The drive back dragged like a lifetime. A tenuous nervousness had stolen over me, too delicate to consume me entirely but still frittering away at my rationality all the same. I rested my head against the chill of the window and wondered if Sherlock and John would come home safely too. I shouldn't have cared. But I did, and I slept uneasily until I heard the front door open and close and the clattering of their footsteps on the stairs.

At work the next day, I approached the director, an older woman in a hideous animal print wrap dress and raffia wedges. She peered at me over her wire-frame spectacles and I fidgeted with my blouse, unsure how to word my inquiry.

"Did Soo Lin Yao come in today?" I finally asked, leaving it at that and hoping for the best. Raffia Wedges squinted suspiciously.

"Soo Lin retired last Tuesday," she said firmly. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," I said with a shrug, "Some of the staff seem to think her resignation was unusual."

"Well, I suppose it's going to get out eventually," she said, pursing maroon-lined lips and adjusting her pearls resignedly. "Soo Lin Yao passed away just last night. It was supposed to stay quiet, but if people are already talking it wouldn't have been long anyway."

"Dead?" My heart leapt in my throat and the French toast I'd eaten for breakfast hastened to follow. "How?"

"Sorry dear, that's classified information. I don't know what happened myself. I trust you'll be discreet and keep this to yourself, hmm? There might be a panic if word gets out one of our younger staff members passed right…well, it wouldn't be good."

I said nothing and retreated to the filing cabinets, but my mind was already whirling. I didn't know much, but I knew Soo Lin's death had something to do with that damn graffiti. Sherlock had mentioned it marking her as a dead woman. It had seemed dramatic at the time but now…now that his grand statement had proved accurate I wanted answers, and it was infuriating not being able to get them. I had no great detective skills to work with, Sherlock sure as hell wasn't going to tell me anything, and Mrs. Hudson knew less than I did when it came to her boys' antics. My best bet, then, was asking John. I cornered him two nights later just as he was tromping down the stairs, neatly combed and wearing a subtle cologne that definitely hadn't been present during our previous meetings.

"Hello. I was just going out," he said cheerfully when he saw me, grabbing his coat and slinging over his arm. "Did you need something?"

I opened my mouth, fully intending to interrogate him until I knew what had happened at the museum and how Soo Lin had died. But I had entirely lost my nerve. John was clearly in a rush, it was none of my business in the first place, and I was seriously frightened I'd be told off and promptly dismissed for my curiosity just like Sherlock had done at the museum. There was only so much rejection a girl could take.

"No, just—It can wait," I stuttered, forcing a smile. "It wasn't that important. Enjoy your date."

"How'd you know I had a date?" John asked with a teasing grin of his own. I realized my mistake and my cheeks flooded with color.

"Oh! Sorry. I shouldn't have assumed—" Dear god, was I incapable of getting two words out without sounding like a bumbling fool? And why had I assumed it was a date anyway? "You're just dressed more nicely, is all. Not that you weren't dressed nicely before, but you added a bit of cologne so I just thought maybe you were trying—I'll shut up now," I muttered, feeling like a complete idiot.

"It's fine," John said kindly, clearly pitying me and my massive social ineptitude. "And you were right. But I really have to be going so if you don't mind—"

"Not at all," I said quickly. John coughed awkwardly, ran a hand through his hair, and practically flew out of the door, leaving me to retreat back to my flat distinctly miserable and hopelessly confused. I curled up on the floor, hoping to meditate a bit. I needed an escape from reality. But whenever my brain blurred and my vision started to go spotty, my thoughts snapped back to poor Soo Lin Yao and the damn museum. I was thrumming with inquisitive energy and had absolutely no outlet for it. Mrs. Hudson bustled in just as I leapt to my feet, unable to stand sitting still for another moment.

"Oh dear, you look like you've had a bit of fright," she said with mothering concern, taking in my deer-in-the-headlights expression. "Is it the creaks in the ceiling? I remember hearing those once or twice when I came down here to clean the place up a bit. Dreadful noises…Sounded like someone was creeping around, although that never is the case. Sherlock doesn't creep at all, bless him. It always seems like he wants to make as much noise as possible. Sometimes it sounds like an elephant lives upstairs! But he's out tonight, so we'll have a nice quiet time all to ourselves, thank goodness for small mercies. I love him dearly but one does need a bit of a break occasionally."

I greeted this monologue with a blank stare, unable to worry about imaginary creeping upstairs when poor Soo Lin Yao had died so mysteriously just two nights previously. Mrs. Hudson was staring at me expectantly, clearly in one of her tea-and-chat moods, but I was too highly strung for either.

"Yes, I think I'll even turn in early," I said quickly, trying to let her down gently. "To appreciate the quiet and all. It would be a shame not to take advantage of such a rarity."

"Of course dear," said Mrs. Hudson, concealing her disappointment well. "You do that. I'll be just upstairs if you need me. I was thinking about watching one of those old black-and-white mysteries they show on Turner's Classics. What's the fancy term for them? It's something French."

"Film noir?"

"Yes, that's what they're called, isn't it? They're showing _The Big Sleep_ with Humphrey Bogart! I had such a crush on him as a girl. Detectives do have a certain appeal," she said with a knowing wink. I wondered if she had turned the same wink on John. He and Sherlock seemed awfully domestic.

"I wouldn't know," I replied with a grin. "The only one I've met is a complete ass!" She laughed lightly and headed out again, leaving me with too much to think about and nothing to do except make good on my word and turn in early.

Even after two Benadryl, three cups of chamomile tea, and a poor attempt at every meditation technique I knew, I was wide awake with nothing but a perpetually full bladder left over from my efforts. So I immersed myself in the activity that had kept me occupied my first two weeks: Listening. I hoped that when (if?) Sherlock and John came home they would make some sort of audible ruckus, just so I would know they were all right without having to go and check myself. I didn't want to be told off for interfering. I curled up on the threadbare sofa, intending to stay up until I got some indicator that they were both safe. It didn't work. The Benadryl eventually had the intended effect: I fell into a deep, suffocating slumber and it took one extraordinarily loud thump to awake me. When I did sit up, still foggy-headed, I thought I had dreamt the noise. But the thump was followed by a crash that most definitely wasn't a figment of my imagination. Then only deafening silence. The quiet was more worrisome to me then the noise. I pulled on my favorite pink terry-cloth bathrobe and crept to my door, tentatively sticking my head out and searching up and down the hall for some sign of Sherlock and John.

"John?" I called tentatively. No answer. "Sherlock? Everything alright up there?"

One brave step later and I was peering curiously around the shadow-shrouded hall, looking for a sign that something had gone awry. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the ever shifting dark, but when they did I noticed something on the rug. Squinting and silently cursing that I had forgotten my emergency glasses in my flat, I kneeled down and felt the dark mark staining the carpet. My fingers came away a rusty brown. I brought them to my lips, abandoning any shred of common sense and giving the substance a lick. Metallic. Someone had recently bled on the carpet.

It was now looking quite likely that the thump I heard had been a blow heavy enough to cause bodily harm—whether to John or Sherlock I didn't know. I was now faced with a choice I didn't want to make. On one hand, silence in 221b was about as usual as the sky turning red, and blood on the carpet was certainly something to worry about. If something was wrong, I had a chance here to find help and possibly worm my way into Sherlock and John's good graces. I wanted to know my new neighbors. I was lonely, and it was depressing having only Mrs. Hudson as a friendly acquaintance. On the other hand, it was also possible that everything was fine and both men had just turned in early. Sherlock was a detective. Maybe the blood had been an unfortunate byproduct of a case. My breaking into their flat with no good reason certainly wouldn't help raise me in their esteem. But I had a responsibility as their neighbor, and that was making sure they were safe. It was basic human decency, and surely even Sherlock couldn't fault me that. I made my way up the stairs as quietly as I could and was surprised to find the door unlocked and open. I edged in slowly, half expecting Sherlock to pop up and shoot me for disturbing them.

The flat was deserted. It took me a second to register the fresh yellow ciphers dripping steadily down the windows, and when I did I admirably restrained my urge to scream. I knew that this was definitely not good, that all the signs were pointing to some serious foul play, and I had every right to try and contact John and Sherlock. I ran down the stairs in a flurry of barely concealed panic and banged on Mrs. Hudson's door. She opened it in an instant and peered up at me dazedly, arms wrapped tightly around her rich purple dressing gown.

"What is it dear?" My expression was stricken enough to fully wake her. She was sharp and alert within a second. "Has something happened to one of the boys?"

I nodded mutely, finding it difficult to navigate around my tongue. "I…uh…think something went wrong with their case. Do you have a number I could call? Preferably John." I didn't fancy getting ripped apart over the phone for my trouble.

"Of course dear, come right in. You can use my phone," she said, gesturing me into her flat. I dialed quickly, clutching her phone like a lifeline. The voicemail picked after only a few rings and I listened numbly, feeling certain this was the final proof John at least was in serious trouble.

"Hello, you've reached Doctor Watson. I can't come to the phone right now but leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can…" I slammed it back down, furious that I had no choice but to call Sherlock. But I was ninety percent certain John needed help, and I had an obligation to do what I could. Especially since he'd been nothing but kind to me. If that included talking to Sherlock, well, I had done far worse things in my life.

Sherlock picked up immediately.

"Who is this?" he demanded, not even bothering to say hello. Hearing his thousand-calorie, chocolate dipped voice without a visual to go with it was…different. More intense. I flushed furiously and thanked my lucky stars he couldn't see me. "Mrs. Hudson? _Why _are you calling? You know I can't afford interruptions when I'm on a case."

"No, it's Julia. I live downstairs," I clarified, realizing how stupid it sounded the second I said it. Of _course _he knew I lived downstairs. How did I come up with this shit? I heard Sherlock's exasperated sigh and realized I had only a few precious seconds before he hung up on me. "Don't go. I think John is in serious trouble. I found some blood on the carpet by the door that looked pretty fresh and someone broke into your flat and painted those yellow ciphers over your windows. You need to look for him _now_."

Sherlock started to interrupt but I cut him off quickly. "You don't have to say anything. Just go and make sure he's okay."

I hung up myself before he had the chance and promptly collapsed into one of Mrs. Hudson's dining chairs. All the energy and purpose filling me a moment ago had drained away completely, leaving me with nothing but a persistent throbbing beneath my eyes. Mrs. Hudson examined me worriedly from a distance.

"Oh, I hope John is all right! Those boys get themselves into the most awful situations. Do you think we ought to call the police?"

"No," I said tiredly, "If Sherlock wants them, he'll call them." I hadn't seen much of him but I knew he would be royally pissed off if he found a bunch of pigs tracking him without his explicit invitation.

"You're probably right dear, he does like doing things his own way." She sat down across from me, looking ten years older with her heavy dressing gown and sleep-mussed hair. "They worry me half to death, you know. Sherlock especially. One day he'll get in over his head and nobody will be able to help him."

I silently agreed. He was both brilliant and arrogant. It was a dangerous combination, especially in his line of work. I could see him getting caught up in something too deep for even his massive intellect and being afraid to ask for help. He seemed like the sort of man who would rather die than have people think he was stupid. Mrs. Hudson wiped her eye morosely. I kept my gaze on an arrangement of jonquils on the table, reaching out to pluck away a few dead petals.

"Just like in _The Glass Menagerie_," I observed, hoping the power wouldn't go out too like in the play and quickly realizing how silly that was. The night was clear enough to make out stars: rare for London and certainly not storm weather. The whole scenario just seemed so extraordinary it almost had a storybook quality. Candlelight by necessity would complete the surreal atmosphere. The jonquils—memory flowers from a memory play—were dazzling in their dated vivacity and added the final touch to the fantasy of the scene. I looked over at Mrs. Hudson and caught her in a shroud of memory; other tired, worried nights sliding like moonlight through the lines of her face.

"Beautiful play, that," she said, watching my progress on the jonquils idly. "I read it for school. I almost loved it more than _To Kill a Mockingbird. _You look very tired. Would you like anything? A cup of warm milk? That always helps me when I'm anxious."

"No," I said absently, still contemplating the canary-bright flowers. I had loved _The Glass Menagerie _myself when I read it in the eighth grade. My mom had bought me a little glass unicorn of my own, and I had broken the horn off for authenticity. I had lost interest in delicate things like miniature animals after my drug problems started. The unicorn was probably long lost in the mess of my old bedroom, a whole ocean away. "Actually, I have a bit of a headache," I conceded, fighting the wave of homesickness rapidly washing over me. "Do you have any ibuprofen?"

"I'm afraid not, but I do have the most wonderful herbal soothers," Mrs. Hudson said, brightening a bit. "They take your aches and pains away in flash. I could use one myself—For the hip, you know."

"O-oh, I don't think I should—I'm clean," I said awkwardly, not quite sure if Mrs. Hudson was offering me pot or some other "herbal soother". Thankfully, she scoffed quietly and made good on the warm milk instead, muttering that the soothers were purely medicinal. I clutched my mug with shaking hands, breathing in relief when Mrs. Hudson joined me in companionable silence. She didn't question why I wanted to stay up for John and Sherlock, even though she would have had good reason to. I had barely met them and was already irrationally attached to their wellbeing. Mrs. Hudson dozed off herself around one a.m. and I took the opportunity to creep down to my flat and fetch my glasses. Sherlock barged in just as I was slinking back up the stairs, half-carrying/half-dragging a barely conscious John behind him.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he bellowed loud enough to wake everyone within a half-mile radius. "Bring up the antiseptic and bandages! John—"

"Will you be quiet?" I hissed, marveling silently that he hadn't seen me on the stairs. Maybe he had and just didn't care. I couldn't blame him; half of John's face was obscured by a thick crust of blood. I'd been high as a kite the last time I had seen so much messy, leaking red—And puking my guilty guts out too much to notice what was happening. Now, I was sober, and I sprang into action, swallowing the bad memories along with my tiredness.

"Mrs. Hudson's asleep," I informed Sherlock calmly, "If you wake her up, she'll panic and get underfoot and slow things down. I have a first aid kit in my flat. I'll help you bring John down."

Sherlock snorted. "I will _not _drag John into the home of an uneducated heroin addict with limited medical supplies when I have everything needed upstairs."

My breath caught and Sherlock, in an act so inappropriate it actually made my jaw drop, smirked knowingly and quirked a goddamn eyebrow, his blood-soaked friend still draped listlessly over his arm. I nobly resisted the urge to punch him straight into next week, for John's sake.

"Former addict," I informed him, "I've been clean for four months. I also have my high school diploma. But that's not the point. Dragging him up the stairs will take physical strength I'm pretty sure you don't possess." I punctuated this statement with a pointed look at his lanky frame. "If we take him downstairs, gravity will be working in our favor."

"Our?" sniffed Sherlock. "I can assure you, my medical knowledge is more extensive than any you could hope to acquire after years of study. I require no assistance in tending to John."

"Maybe not," I grumbled, wondering why I had waited half the night just to make sure this shithead came home safely. "But unless you plan on dragging him down the stairs, and I don't think he'll thank you tomorrow if you do, you're gonna need my help carrying him."

"Fine," Sherlock spat, "By all means, carry away."

I started to haul John's other arm over my shoulder with effort, wishing I could grow a few inches on the spot, when John came back to the world of the living long enough to speak.

"For God's sake Sherlock," he grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut against the unusually bright moonlight cascading down the stairs. I let out a sigh of relief that he was still lucid enough to talk coherently. I didn't know what I would do if John Watson ended up dying in my flat. "I'm not some damsel in distress. I can walk."

"No, you can't," Sherlock said with a strain of tenderness that surprised me. "You've been bludgeoned in the head by a trained assassin. Don't be an idiot." And we're back to the cold superiority again, dammit.

"Who is that?" John muttered, squinting up at me dazedly. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"It's Julia," I informed him as we trudged down the stairs, doing our best to keep John from tripping. He was managing to support his own weight well enough, and it seemed like he would be fine after a little cleaning up. "We're taking you downstairs. To my flat, if that's all good with you." Sherlock rolled his eyes and I cursed myself silently for sounding like such a fucking idiot. The only thing downstairs _was _my flat.

"You don't have to do that," John said slowly, managing not to sound inebriated or concussed.

"Yeah, well, it's the neighborly thing to do," I said, remembering what Sherlock had told me when he offered me my job. I glanced up at him now, taking in his stupidly pretty cheekbones and feeling a little thrill that those cheekbones would shortly be in my flat. I shook the butterflies in my stomach away and concentrated on getting John downstairs safely.

We made it without any casualties. John refused to lie down on my sofa, insisting he was fine to sit up. Sherlock stood stiffly, scrutinizing my living room with cool indifference that left me supremely grateful I had done little to personalize my home. I ran to the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit, not wanting to stay in the same room as the overwhelming enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. I had kept all sorts of essentials handy during the span of my addiction, and I wasn't going to kick the good habit now. I trudged back out to where John was perched sullenly on the couch, carrying antiseptic, gauze, and plenty of medical tape and hoping it would be enough. Sherlock was examining my bookshelf, and I thanked the heavens I had remembered to hide my copy of _Kama Sutra _in the pocket of my ugliest coat.

"I have everything," I announced to the room, plopping the kit next to John. "You probably want to do it yourself. I wouldn't want a stranger poking at my head if I were in your shoes."

John smiled gratefully but chose not to speak, dabbing gingerly at his head wound with a delicate wince. Sherlock, seeing his colleague wasn't in any immediate danger, made his way into my kitchen. I followed him, wondering why he was wandering around my flat without permission.

"Looking for something?" I asked pointedly. Sherlock didn't pause in his examination of my coffee-yellowed cupboards, permanently marked by years of spills from previous tenants. My kitchen was cozier than the rest of the flat. I was determined to gain back the weight I had lost during my stint in rehab and kept the fridge stocked with all sorts of high-calorie foods, but I had a terrible habit of leaving things out and most of the available space was cluttered with half eaten toast, chunks of cheese, and other necessities. A mandatory photo of my parents hung on the least visible wall.

"Can you tell me what happened to him?" I tried again. Sherlock gave me a look not far off from disgust.

"I loathe working with the police," he began, and I held my breath, wondering where this non sequitur was headed. "I find it unbelievably trying to expose myself to their stupidity, even with the motivation of interesting case. Why then would I wish to discuss my work with an even more highly incompetent emotionally-wrecked addict?"

"I'm not an addict!" I exclaimed indignantly. "For the last damn time, I'm recovered!" The more troubling point in his little tirade popped out at me. "How the hell did you know about that anyway?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply in preparation for what was to be one of the most astonishing displays of intelligence I had ever witnessed.

"You've lost an unhealthy amount of weight—Enough to result in a significant amount of loose skin. It's been a recent change then, probably in the last six months. Maybe you're plagued by an eating disorder, but that is highly unlikely. You have been gaining again since you moved to London, and keep your refrigerator stocked with rich foods. Encouraging weight gain then; anorexia is out, and your teeth and skin are in too good shape for a bulimic. You have dark circles under your eyes from severe insomnia, most likely due to the difficulty of shutting your brain down without external influence. What could cause both a severe, unwanted weight loss and lack of sleep? Excessive drug use. Your arms are free of track marks or grafts, and, since heroin is typically administered intravenously, the element of probability suggests another drug. Your breath is too fresh for a smoker, you show no signs of nicotine withdrawal, and marijuana addiction wouldn't lead to such severe physical side affects. Cocaine was the most viable option."

"That was spectacular. But it wasn't cocaine," I pointed out, impressed in spite of myself. I had read about Sherlock's ability to deduce a person's life story on John's blog, but witnessing it in person was even better than reading a summarized version. Especially since I was the recipient of his remarkable prowess.

"No," Sherlock admitted with a sneer, clearly still resentful he hadn't reached the correct conclusion. "Heroin is the most likely, then. I assume you took the insufflation route."

"Yeah. I'm scared of needles." I looked at him carefully, taking in his own unnaturally pale complexion and lack of body fat. "I guess cocaine was your thing then."

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock asked disdainfully, but I wasn't too slow to catch the slight darting of his eyes. The subject was a sore one.

"Lots of people snort heroin," I pointed out, "But you still immediately ruled it out in favor of cocaine. And you entirely left out psychedelics that are usually administered orally. That's subconscious projection right there."

"I wasn't _projecting_," Sherlock protested, looking positively violated at the suggestion. "It was the element of probability! And psychedelics have a far more adverse effect mentally than physically."

"Fair enough," I conceded. "What else can you tell about me? Just by looking. I read about your whole deduction thing on John's blog. It sounds pretty neat."

"It isn't _neat_. It's science," sniffed Sherlock. "And John has kindly pointed out to me that my announcing strangers' life stories is socially inacceptable and while I normally have no use for pointless niceties, I have learned from experience that it's not good to…what's the phrase? Burn bridges."

"I'm giving you permission though. And anyway, I doubt you'll get everything right," I said smugly, knowing I was sealing the deal. Sure enough, Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"Is that a challenge?"

"Yes," I said, quirking my own eyebrow and throwing him a dazzling smile for good measure. "You game?"

Sherlock circled me like a shark, taking in every minute detail of my appearance. I shifted self-consciously, wishing I were wearing something nicer than my old flannel ducky-print pajamas and faded robe. Not to mention that my inconveniently long hair was a frizzy mess, thanks to my forgetting to use conditioner the previous night.

"I know that you are twenty-one years old, you come from a small Midwestern town, you are from a reasonably wealthy family and have no desire to attend a university. You are bisexual with a leniency towards women, most likely because your last boyfriend died in tragic circumstances and you can't bear being with another man—or a serious relationship with either gender—due to the risk of stirring up painful memories," Sherlock took a breath here, and I fought to keep my expression neutral. He was looking for a reaction, and I wasn't going to give him one. Not until he had finished, anyway.

"You tend to be submissive in bed but also possess a danger complex and a tendency to fantasize about older and worldlier men corrupting your 'innocence'; a purely wishful term considering you had quite a lot of casual sex with both genders before your drug addiction eradicated your interest in such carnal pleasures. You think spatially rather than logically and dislike socializing unless the person in question has adequately captured your interest, a sentiment I can sympathize with entirely. People do enjoy talking to you, more likely due to the fact that you could be considered conventionally attractive rather than your lacking conversational abilities."

My mouth was open again, partly in awe of how quickly he had rattled off his deductions about my life but mostly because a fair amount of his assumptions were just plain wrong. Sherlock clearly had no idea that he was off the mark. His smile was unbearably smug, and I was pleased I had the chance to take him down a few pegs.

"Wow, okay," I said, my voice coming out breathier than intended. "Tell me how you figured all of that out, and maybe I'll tell you what you got wrong."

"Wrong? None of that was wrong. It was all painfully obvious," Sherlock said indignantly. I sighed in exasperation, not sure whether to be amused or horrified that this man thought he knew more about my life than I did.

"Yes, quite a lot of that was wrong," I repeated patiently, "Explain how you worked it out though, by all means. I am curious." I felt an immature rush of satisfaction when Sherlock scowled petulantly. He hated being condescended to, yet everything he said reeked of superiority. What a fucking hypocrite. Sherlock took another deep breath in preparation and I crossed my arms, bracing myself for the oncoming onslaught of pomposity.

"Your age was a rough estimate, taken by the fact that you are clearly fully grown but possess no skills of self-preservation. You haven't lived on your own before and didn't attend a university. You were relieved when I offered you the job at the National Antiquities Museum, not because you were strapped for cash but because you needed the illusion of self-reliance. You support a meager career as a writer but still manage to pay the rent and purchase the overly-priced food you've been fed most of your life." He picked up the seven-grain organic loaf of bread I had carelessly left on the counter. "You're parents are wealthy and pave your way, probably as a reward for getting clean. You wear clothes suited for much cooler climates despite the current warmer weather—You are unused to the cold and humidity. Your accent is obviously American and you lived in a hot dry area. Conclusion: you come from the Midwest."

"That's all right," I interrupted, leaning casually against the counter. "Except for the age. I'm actually twenty-two. Close enough. How'd you know about my boyfriend?"

"The necklace you're wearing. It is noticeably cheaper than the rest of your jewelry; 14 karat gold-plated nickel whereas the earrings you were wearing on our first meeting were two-karat diamonds set in solid 18 karat gold. You are still wearing the necklace now, and the metal is oxidized. You never take it off, not even to sleep. Conclusion: A present from your boyfriend. Now what happened to him? He didn't dump you. No, if he had been the one at fault you would have gotten rid of the necklace. You would have no reason to keep it if you had been the one to end it. He could be alive, but there are no photos displayed and you do keep pictures of your family and close friends from the States. Dead then. You keep the necklace to remember him by because seeing his face is too painful."

He looked at me for confirmation, and I nodded once, having absolutely no desire to discuss poor Alex with Sherlock Holmes. Anything I said would come out sounding guilty, and he would work everything out and humiliate me. I wasn't going to let that happen. I would not let this clever, cruel man get to me. Turning away so he wouldn't notice my over-bright eyes, I nodded for him to continue.

"Now, on to your sexuality. Your pupils dilated ever so slightly when you saw Soo Lin Yao, and you immediately threw your shoulders back and pursed your lips; clear flirtatious behavior. Bisexual then, and perfectly comfortable sending advances to a virtual stranger."

"Wait a minute, how do you know I'm not gay then?" I asked, noticing a glaring flaw in his logic. "The necklace could be from my dead girlfriend."

"The necklace is a standard chain, and the stone is a typical shape and cut. Women tend to purchase more adventurous and stylish presents while men prefer to play it safe and go classic. A girlfriend would have bought you a more personal token."

"Fair enough," I said, remembering how Alex always used to clam up when I pointed out a piece of statement jewelry I liked. He never understood that weird was sometimes good. "Do continue."

"_Lolita _is the most frequently read book on your shelf. Maybe you just enjoy Nabokov, but you don't own any of his other works. You read it for the content then. You are attracted to the illicitness of the story. Your immediate flirtatious stance with Soo Lin Yao indicates that you are comfortable with sex—Both with men and women. And your books are organized by color; aesthetics are more important to you than organization. Spatial thinker."

I gaped at him, wondering if there was any shred of humanity beneath his otherworldly cheekbones and contrived cleverness. Everything he guessed about my sexuality had been completely wrong and as for all that "spatial thinker" bullshit; well, I certainly thought I was logical enough in my own right. Sherlock was looking at me expectantly, probably waiting for me to tell him everything he messed up and gloat. But I wasn't going to do that. I would take the higher road, at least until I got what I wanted.

Sure enough, Sherlock's first question was, "Well? What did I get wrong?"

"Why should I tell you?" I retorted, "You haven't given me an explanation about John's condition or even a sliver of information about what happened at the Museum. I know Soo Lin died. Care to tell me how?"

"I don't share my work with strangers," said Sherlock stubbornly, "You would only go prying further and you wouldn't understand anyway."

"Then I'm not going to tell you what you deduced incorrectly," I replied, remaining calm in face of Sherlock's glare. "I told you John was in trouble and helped. I showed you the cipher at the Museum. You owe me an explanation, not the other way around."

"I don't owe you anything," Sherlock spat, "You made the choice to barge into our flat without permission. No one was _forcing _you. It was your own stupidity and insufferable nosiness, a trait shared by most of the idiots at Scotland Yard and _not _one I look upon favorably."

"Then I suppose it's a good thing I don't want your favor," I said coolly. It was entirely untrue. I didn't want Sherlock or John to hate me. I would have settled for friendly acquaintance, but not if it meant kissing Sherlock's ass and consistently shrugging off his pompous cruelty. And I certainly wasn't going to extend my hospitality towards him only to be treated like dirt under his shoes.

"I'm going to check on John. See if he's ready to make it up to your flat." It was a clear dismissal, and Sherlock recognized it as such. He slunk back into the living room, where John was now pressing an icepack to his head, wincing at the cold sting.

"Can you walk yet?" I asked bluntly, glaring at Sherlock. "Because I really need to be getting to bed, if you don't mind."

"Oh, of course. Sorry for inconveniencing you," John said, creaking to his feet with a pained groan. He gave Sherlock a look that clearly said _What the hell did you do this time? _Sherlock scowled determinedly.

"Come along, John," he called, swooping out the door with a flourish. "Busy day tomorrow. No time for sitting and chatting."

Pfft. Sitting and chatting my ass. He'd been the one doing most of the talking.

"Busy doing what?" John growled, stumping after him. He graced me with a grateful grin before slipping out the door himself. "Thanks for all your help," he said, and it was so sincere that I mustered a genuine smile of my own. "If you hadn't called…well, I don't want to think about what could've happened. Sherlock's grateful too. He's just too bloody arrogant to admit it."

"That's okay. I'm glad to help. If—if you need anything else, well…you know, just give me a call." Dear God, I came off overeager. But John was nice in an undemanding way and I _needed _a genuine friend. One that didn't rattle off assumptions about my life (okay, with permission. But _still_) and then have the audacity to not believe me when I told him he was wrong.

"Of course," said John. "Have a good night!"

He shut the door, leaving me isolated again, and my loneliness engulfed me like an old friend. Maybe I would see him again tomorrow. Just exchanging hellos would be enough. I slid to the floor and scooted up against the sofa, the throbbing behind my eyes returning full force. I told myself firmly that I was right to ask Sherlock for information, especially since I had done quite a bit to help John. But in spite of my efforts to convince myself, I was unable to shake the feeling that I had lost a battle I hadn't known I'd been fighting.

* * *

**Next chapter will start getting into TGG, and Julia will meet Lestrade, Molly and our favorite good old-fashioned villain. I also have an original case planned for the period of time between TGG and ASiB that I think will turn out pretty interesting. The plot's only going to be speeding up from here, folks. So stay tuned, read and review, and I'll hopefully be updating next Saturday! **


	3. Burning Bridges

**A/N: Oh my god, guys. I wasn't expecting more than a couple of reviews for the second chapter, so it was a pleasant surprise getting this much support! Thanks so much to elbafo (check out her Sherlock/OC stories, they're seriously amazing. My favorites.), GeorgyannWayson, Artemis-Max-Katniss-Holmes, fmxc17, kylya, Lothelen, rycbar15, ****xxz0eyxx**** and both guests for your reviews. Your opinions mean a lot to me, so I really hope you continue to tell me what you think. And thanks to the faves and follows. I'm really happy with this chapter, and I hope you guys enjoy it too.**

**Just as another quick note: I'm changing some small details from the series, just because I want to keep this original and fresh. If you want to watch John discover the head in the fridge because Sherlock's testing post-mortem coagulation of saliva…well, watch the episode! I'm not going to regurgitate lines from the show with a few slap-ons from Julia. She's going to play her own unique role in the plot, and she's going to change things a bit. Not hugely, but her presence will have an effect. Be prepared.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock…well, for one thing, we wouldn't have to wait two fucking years for the next series. And there wouldn't be any horrible cliffhangers. And Johnlock would be canon. But obviously, I don't, so don't sue me. Also, thanks to Ariane Devere for her wonderful work transcribing the episodes. I can't even imagine how much patience and effort that takes.**

**Chapter 3: Burning Bridges**

* * *

Not a week later, John made good on my offer to help him. I found him outside my door red-faced, flustered and massively pissed off. I immediately looked in the direction of the stairs, wondering what Sherlock had done this time. You didn't have to live in Baker Street long to develop a natural inclination to blame everything unpleasant on the resident detective.

"Julia, hi," John huffed when he saw me, letting out an audible sigh of relief. "Look, I hate to be a bother but can I ask you a small favor?"

"Depends on what qualifies as a small favor," I smiled, "But I'm up to pretty much anything. What d'you need?"

John opened his mouth to reply, but he was quickly cut off by an annoyed bellow of "JOHN! I'M NOT GOING TO WAIT ALL DAY!" We both winced, John practically shaking with fury. _What did Sherlock do indeed_, I thought ruefully, preparing for the worst.

"Sorry, what does her highness need now?" I corrected, fighting back an eye-roll. John was a martyr for putting up with the man.

"It's…well, it's Sherlock," explained John, looking so apologetic I would've done anything he asked out of sheer pity. "He's back from Belarus and he's in a terrible mood because the case wasn't stimulating enough. He expects me to do so much at once and I just _can't _but when he gets like this I just have to suck it up and do everything because…well, you know what he's like. He told me to go and get the shopping and then two seconds later he wants me to _punch a bloody human head _to measure post-mortem bruising because 'It's for science, John!' But he'll yell at me later for not getting the groceries and I can't do both at once. So…"

"You need me to get the shopping," I filled in for him, and John's guilty shrug was all the confirmation I needed. Well, it could be worse. At least he wasn't asking _me _to punch a human head.

"Yeah," John breathed, ruffling his hair in what I'd come to recognize as a nervous habit. "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked. You said to call though and you've been really helpful so far, what with the cipher and all that."

"It's fine," I said honestly, glad he was comfortable enough around me to ask for help, rather than leaving me to just barge in whether wanted or not. "Do you have a list?"

"Yeah," said John, fishing out a piece of crumpled paper. "You can find most of this stuff at Tesco. And if you could just bring it up, that would be great." Sherlock hollered for him again, and John immediately turned back towards the stairs. "JUST ONE BLOODY SECOND, SHERLOCK!" I let out a little laugh, glad he was standing up for himself. John grinned sheepishly, his former politeness returning instantly. "Jesus, I better go. Thank you so much, Julia. You're an angel."

I blushed furiously and left feeling extremely pleased with myself, examining the list with satisfaction. Surprisingly enough, there wasn't anything too unusual on it. Just milk, cereal, fruit, ground beef, other perfectly ordinary foods, and peroxide, which was the most sinister item by far. I was a bit disappointed that I wasn't being sent to get, I dunno, _weapons _or body parts or something. Sherlock probably bought all the weird shit himself. Sure enough, the nearest Tesco was readily stocked with everything on the list. The cashier, a greying man with Crest commercial teeth, took one look at me and hastened to make overfriendly small talk, a gesture I certainly didn't appreciate.

"S'always nice to see a good Christian girl," he remarked, eyes fixed on the crucifix charm resting in the hollow of my throat just above my Alex necklace. I grimaced uncomfortably. In truth, I wore the chain purely out of habit, and because it was a pretty piece of jewelry and I didn't want it to go to waste. I hadn't stepped foot in a church since I escaped Catholic school.

"Um, yeah," I said, pointedly avoiding his stare. "I don't really go to service or anything like that." My words went straight over his head.

"I have two daughters going to a good private school," he remarked, absently scanning the milk carton. "Looking for a Catholic babysitter for them—I don't want a bad influence, y'know? I'm a single father," he added pointedly, teeth flashing. "Don't get much time to meself. Do you have any kids?"

"Er…no," I said awkwardly, cringing at the very thought and letting my eyes dart to the door in my eagerness to get the hell out of there. Crest Teeth remained oblivious to my discomfort, blathering on happily.

"It would be nice to have some company, if you get me meaning," he said. "Gets lonely with just the girls and me. They're both real sweethearts, of course, but you can only watch _The Little Mermaid _so many times for entertainment. Sign here, please."

I signed the receipt with a flourish, but before I could grab it and make my escape he reached out and scribbled a phone number, shoving the slip of paper at me with a smile so hopeful I found myself unable to refuse. What harm could one lonely single man do anyway? And I was under no obligation to actually call him. I stuffed the receipt in my purse, intending to throw it away as soon as I got home. John had given me permission to bring the shopping straight up when I got back to 221b, but I hesitated anyway when I reached the stairs. Sherlock was up there, he was in a foul mood, and he probably wouldn't take kindly to me coming into their flat, even for something as innocent as groceries. I gathered my resolve and headed up, stumbling into the stylishly cluttered room with a relieved sigh. Sherlock wasn't in the living room so he had to be in the kitchen experimenting. I couldn't just brush past him and ignore him then. Goddammit.

Sure enough, he was once again perched at the kitchen table, but the human head he supposedly had been working on was seated carelessly on the counter behind him, gazing ahead with glassy eyes. A large portion of once translucent skin was stained deep eggplant: the product of John's fist to the cheek. I stared at it numbly, realizing that it was an _actual head _from an _actual deceased human being _and fighting the accompanying wave of nausea valiantly. Sherlock looked up, registered my presence with a snort, and turned his attention back to whatever he was working on.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he snapped. I held up the bags in explanation.

"Do you know if John wants me to put these away or—"

"Just leave them there," Sherlock ordered. I dropped the bags gratefully and turned to head straight back out, unwilling to interact with a grumpy Sherlock more than strictly necessary. Unfortunately, he spoke up before I could leave. "What did I get wrong?"

"Huh?" When I realized what he was asking, I paused. I was surprised he still cared. Or maybe he didn't really, but being wrong and not knowing how was so unbearable he was pretending. I weighed my words carefully, wondering if it was worth the risk to push for more information about the cipher business. "Oh, when you deduced me the previous night? I already told you, tell me what happened to John and Soo Lin Yao first."

"John will be blogging about the case shortly, I'm sure," Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose in severe disapproval. "I suggest you wait for his no doubt cleverly titled version of events. The masses do seem to prefer his blatant romanticizing and excessive punctuation." He scowled, muttering "spectacularly ignorant, indeed" under his breath malevolently.

"I'd prefer to hear your version," I replied honestly, because arrogance aside, Sherlock was nothing if not intelligent and engaging. "But that's never going to happen, I guess. Here, I'll offer a compromise. Tell me what you're working on, and I'll tell you what you got wrong."

Sherlock contemplated this for a moment, seemed to decide that he couldn't go on living without knowing my entire life story, and nodded shortly. I plopped down at the table, keeping my hands well away from the scattering of dishes just in case one of them held some flesh melting chemical.

"I'm measuring the onset of rigor mortis in an isolated joint," he said, holding up a dish of _fingers, _of all things. They were comically grotesque, as if he might have bought them at the Halloween costume warehouse as a practical joke.

"Ah," I said, not even pretending to understand. "Is that when you get all stiff after you die?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, rolling is eyes at my ignorance. "What did I get wrong?"

I paused and chewed my lip, smirking internally when Sherlock gave a pointed cough. It would be nice to test his limits a bit, see if there was anything primal lurking beneath that icy exterior. Discover if he had a shred of hot blood under his impenetrable layers of intellect. With great purpose, I tipped forward languidly, lowering my lashes and resting my cheek in the palm of my hand. Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly, but not from hidden lust. I had surprised him.

"Well, to start with," I began, lowering my voice and peering up at him coyly, "I'm not submissive in the least. And I don't have a preference for older men, though I do prefer someone who's seen a little bit more of the world."

Sherlock gathered himself quickly, but there was a new stiffness to him that suggested he wasn't used to being openly flirted with. Or if he was, it was usually subtle enough to go straight over his head. I hadn't been delicate in the least though, and even Sherlock couldn't remain oblivious to my test advance.

"I suggest you direct your idiotic flirtations at a more interested party," he remarked coldly, prodding at the flesh in his bowl with one spidery finger. "Perhaps the overly friendly cashier who just gave you his number. He's a bit old himself, of course, but I'm sure that won't deter your misguided efforts in the slightest."

I threw back my head and laughed, pleased in spite of myself that Sherlock was above all that. I wasn't stunningly beautiful, sure, but Sherlock had been right that I was fairly comfortable when it came to sex and there weren't that many young, straight, unattached men who immediately refused the advances of a decently attractive college age girl. I was relieved Sherlock wasn't tempted. It made living below him so much simpler now I knew any façade I put up would be promptly dismissed. No seducing or rebuking necessary.

"Just testing you against my womanly wiles," I said, smiling happily. "You passed with flying colors."

"Womanly wiles?" Sherlock retorted, his face a study in contempt. "You're barely legal, socially inept, exceptionally naïve, and possess a massive inferiority complex. Your ability to judge character is so poor it's nearly comical. The only men you have falling at your feet are desperate, sexually frustrated college students with IQs lower than their shoe size. You crave attention and go about getting it the only way you can: With your supposed sex appeal, a stretch in itself since the only men starved enough to date a girl like you are perfectly happy to go at it with any mildly attractive blonde without obvious physical deformities. Ah yes, I can see now what I missed the first time around. Even before your drug addiction you never engaged in casual sex because you are all too aware that the second your looks fade, a phenomenon likely to occur at the age of thirty at most thanks to your history of substance abuse, you will have no way of getting the attention you crave. I see someone who is scared, spoiled, and knows their time is running out. I would pity you, but as it won't make any difference in your unfortunate circumstances I won't bother."

Once again, I was speechless. His words hurt, and badly, because they were so much closer to the mark than his first attempt. I didn't like to actively think about it much, but it was entirely true that the only reason people spoke to me was because I had a prettiness all girls possessed at a certain age before fading into the awkward slot between "young and fresh" and "mid-life crisis". I had wasted two years of my limited time abusing my body, my upbringing had left me with no way of finding my own path, and my writing, the only skill I possessed, wasn't nearly good enough to carry me for the rest of my life. I had thought, when I was younger, that I could get married to someone well off enough to support me and that would be that. It wasn't the lifestyle I wanted, but it had looked like my only option at the time. The only person who had come close had single-handedly demolished any shred of independence I had originally possessed and promptly died on me. Sherlock had reminded me of all of this in less than a minute, and, to my absolute horror, I felt a tear burn in the corner of my eye.

"Oh dear, it appears I've touched a nerve. If you're going to cry, please do it elsewhere," said Sherlock detachedly, "If you drip salt water in the dish resting beside your left elbow, hours of labor will be wasted. And tears are awfully distracting."

This cool reminder that I wasn't alone and unable to bawl my eyes out brought me the courage to remain cold myself. It wasn't that hard—I had never had a difficult time remaining icy in the face of emotional turmoil. Sherlock's blunt evaluation of everything fucked up with my life struck me hard, but it was hardly the worst thing I'd dealt with.

"That was amazing," I said, careful to keep my voice flat. "Much more impressive than your first attempt."

"Ah, so I got it right," said Sherlock, looking genuinely pleased.

"I was actually referring to the sheer emotional destructiveness of that little monologue. No one's ever made me that depressed that quickly before. Congratulations," I deadpanned. Sherlock looked surprised. "That's what you were trying to do, wasn't it? Hurt me as badly as possible? You succeeded. Good job."

"I wasn't—" he started but I cut him off.

"Look, I'm leaving. I need a good cry right now and this clearly isn't the place to have it. Good luck with the rigor mortis."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but I could feel his eyes following me as I left. I kept my spine straight and my shoulders back, determined to reign in my emotions until I was in the safety of my own flat. John passed me on the stairs, a bag of frozen peas wrapped around his raw knuckles, and if he noticed the redness in my eyes he didn't say anything. I told him in a dead voice that the shopping was on the kitchen floor. He thanked me, but I wasn't listening.

Back in my own flat, I found I didn't need to cry as badly as I thought. Sherlock was an asshole, and even if his words had truth to them, there had to be a reason he had gone out his way to make me feel as crappy as possible. He was probably lonely himself if he went around saying shit like that to people. Scratch that, lonely was an understatement. Virtually friendless with the exception of John was a better description. Maybe he was subconsciously projecting some of his own hurt on me, like he'd done with the cocaine. I had, after all, practically begged to be dissected. _Oh please Sherlock, take apart my whole life in seconds! Tell me everything that's wrong with me, I don't mind! _I was such a fucking idiot. It was just as much my own fault as it was his. Upstairs, three gunshots punctuated my thoughts, as if in agreement.

But what could I do now? Sherlock was unavoidable, and although he certainly could have been nicer just then, deducing people with complete emotional detachment was his job. I had asked him, he obliged. My own pride was the only thing determining how I would react when I saw him again. What would earn his respect? I had eradicated any progress I had made by helping John when I decided to test him with my "idiotic flirtations". So the only choice now was to take the high road. Don't force myself on them, but be polite. Offer help when needed, but don't get too involved. The boundaries were important. I lived downstairs. I wasn't a part of his and John's little clique.

Having formed a plan of action, I could relax. Maybe I would go up later and apologize for coming on to him when it was obvious he wasn't interested. Sherlock probably didn't date. My flirting with him might have alarmed him, and the brutal analysis had been his automatic defense mechanism. It felt better, taking him apart in my own little way. Maybe Sherlock was the super sleuth, but I wasn't a complete dunce. I understood basic motivations.

The second I had calmed enough to not feel sick at the thought of having to speak to Sherlock again, some higher power made the decision to obliterate my peace in the most obnoxious way possible. In a perfect physical display of my emotional turmoil, the whole other side of the street exploded.

* * *

"You sure you're all right to stand, duckie?" the middle-aged nurse needlessly fussing over me asked for the millionth time. I had, in my own poor attempt at detective work, concluded that she was married (ring), had multiple children (extra weight in her tummy that was characteristic of most mothers), and was uncomfortable with her weight (what else could three layers of spanx mean?). Time around Sherlock, no matter how limited, did force you to view people differently.

"I'm fine," I repeated tiredly. "I wasn't even upstairs when it happened. That's where most of the damage was done, right?"

"It _was _a gas-leak, hun," the nurse pointed out, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my arm. "Most people would be in shock. Frightened, at the very least. Relax your arm."

The band tightened uncomfortably and loosened again, and the nurse checked the number with a pout.

"Well, I suppose you're good to go. It's remarkable that you're handling this so well. I know I would panic if the building across from my flat exploded. Nerves of steel, eh?"

Not nerves of steel so much as too busy worrying about other shit. Like wondering whether Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson were okay. I scanned the street, searching for a flash of blue silk robe amongst the entirely unnecessary ambulance, police cars, and scattered brickwork. There was no sign of him. None of John or Mrs. Hudson either. Maybe he'd left again while I'd been downstairs? I headed back towards my thankfully unharmed flat, a bit pissed no one had thought to tell me whether my neighbors were okay. There was now a police officer standing guard at door. I approached him, expecting to be let straight through. No such luck.

"I live here," I said pointedly. "Down in 221c. There wasn't any damage done."

"Sorry ma'am. We have to make sure the area is completely safe before letting anyone new through," the officer said apologetically. I glowered, thoroughly displeased that I couldn't go wait in my own flat.

"Well, where do you want me until you guys finish checking?" I asked. He pointed me over to the ambulance. I sat in the back glumly, watching as the squad checked the damage. A car sped off twenty minutes later, and the officer guarding the door gave me the okay to head back to my flat. I did so gladly. Mrs. Hudson was in the only slightly banged-up hallway, anxiously observing the men milling about. She brightened noticeably when she saw me.

"Oh, Julia! So good to see you're all right. The boys just went off to the New Scotland Yard," she added, anticipating my unasked question. "They're both perfectly fine. Goodness, a gas leak of all things! Quite exciting, isn't it?"

"Gas leak…" I repeated, chewing my lip thoughtfully. Something about that didn't seem right. Weren't gas leaks usually preceded by funny smells? Then again, actual rotting human flesh apparently wasn't uncommon in 221b. Any gas odor was probably obscured by the scents of Sherlock's experimentation. I headed down to my flat with plans to curl up with a shitty romance novel until the commotion died down, pushing the door open gratefully. I stopped. There was a pair of shoes sitting in the middle of my living room, just in front of the stained fireplace.

The feeling that something wasn't right increased tenfold. I edged forward gingerly, half expecting the shoes to explode. When they didn't, I sat on the floor and examined them. They were big, and one of those 1980s designs. Old, but well-preserved. That was all I got from just looking, and I certainly wasn't going to reach out and touch. Who the hell planted shoes in my flat? It didn't seem like the sort of thing Mrs. Hudson would do, and I doubted Sherlock or John had crept down to my flat and placed them there before dashing off to the New Scotland Yard.

"JULIA! Open up, it's important!" Sherlock's voice startled me so badly, I nearly pissed myself. More surprising still was the fact that he had actually deigned to use my name at all. I leapt to my feet, sure his sudden presence must have something to do with the trainers in the middle of my living room.

"You're here for the shoes, right?" I asked as I opened the door. "I don't know who left them, they were here when I came down." I registered the presence of a new man behind Sherlock and John. Greying hair, tired eyes, police badge. A detective then, and a real silver fox too if you ignored his looking about 130% done with life. "Wait, who's this? I don't want some stranger traipsing around my home."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," said the man, extending a weary hand. I gave it a tentative shake, still hoping for an explanation.

"They were left by the bomber," Sherlock announced, sweeping into my flat with John and Lestrade at his heels. The meaning of his words sunk in immediately.

"Oh, it was a bomb then? I had a feeling it wasn't a gas leak," I said, more to myself than to Sherlock. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Just stay out of the way," Sherlock barked. I flinched and stepped back hurriedly, remembering my resolve to stay polite, helpful, and unobtrusive. John jerked forward when Sherlock reached for the shoes.

"Remember, he's a bomber." Sherlock didn't answer. He was crouched over the trainers, and though I couldn't see his face, I could practically _hear _his brain whirling away a mile a minute. A loud ring interrupted the silence, and Sherlock flinched violently, pulling out a bright pink phone and immediately putting it on speaker. It took a minute, but I eventually recognized it from A Study in Pink. The phone that led Sherlock straight to Jennifer Wilson's killer. I felt like I was in the presence of a celebrity. The only noise that could be heard from the phone itself was a muffled sniffling. And then…

"H-hello…sexy." The woman over the line was crying. I had no idea what the hell was going on, but I had an extremely bad feeling about the whole damn situation. Detective Inspector Lestrade and John looked just as confused as I felt, but Sherlock didn't hesitate to respond.

"Who's this?"

"I've…sent you…a little puzzle…just to say…_hi."_

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?" Sherlock barked. I rolled my eyes because _honestly_, yelling at the poor woman wasn't going to help.

"I'm not…crying, I'm…typing and this…_stupid bitch_…is reading it out."

I listened to the rest of the message in a trance, torn between pitying the woman and wondering what the hell Sherlock had done to attract this maniac to him. Then again, if I had psychopathic tendencies, I would have wanted to torment Sherlock too, especially after his little tirade that morning. After the message ended, Sherlock spoke quietly (quiet? Sherlock? Pigs should be flying) with the Detective Inspector before announcing to the room at large that he was heading to St. Bartholomew's Hospital to run tests on the shoes. I blurted my request before I could restrain myself.

"Can I come?" I winced when Sherlock sent me the look of death, but now that I had gone and opened my mouth I wasn't going to back down. I could be firm, polite _and _insistent. "Look, I'm not going to get in the way or anything."

Sherlock looked at me in bemusement, but there was a flicker of distaste in his eyes that left me supremely uncomfortable. Jesus, had I offended him that much with a simple come-on? I understood that it had been a bit out of order, but he was really overreacting. Especially since he had already ripped me apart earlier, nearly leaving me a complete emotional wreck.

"Why should I let you?" he finally asked. It was an honest question, and it took me a second to think of a reason better than "I just want to."

"I'm very good at fetching coffee," I finally offered. After weighing the consequences, I added a qualifier. "And I want to do something to apologize for what I said earlier." John and Lestrade both looked confused, but I had to say it. _Take the high road, Jules. He'll respect you eventually. _"It was bang out of order. I wasn't thinking. I'll be your personal slave for the day to make up for it."

Sherlock was giving me another _look_, but it was different this time. It appeared I had surprised him again. Maybe he'd been expecting me to demand an apology or something, and it would have been firmly in my right to, but I had made it abundantly clear earlier that I wasn't happy with his treatment. Rubbing salt in the wound now wouldn't help me feel better and it wouldn't make him think any more highly of me, so what was the point?

"And what exactly would 'personal slave' entail?" Sherlock finally asked with a deliberate smirk. I grinned in relief, considering myself forgiven.

"Anything you fancy," I replied easily, "I'll even shine your shoes if you want."

"Anything?" said Sherlock. "That's rather bold of you." Yeah, well, what was the worst thing he could ask of me? Sexual favors were clearly off the table.

"Stupid is the more accurate term. I guess I'm trying to fix idiocy with more idiocy."

Apparently calling myself stupid sealed the deal. Sherlock actually let the corner of his mouth quirk up. "You can come. Just don't touch anything without permission, and stay out of the way unless I tell you otherwise."

"Fair enough," I shrugged, tagging after him with John by my side. Lestrade immediately disappeared into a squad car and Sherlock hailed down a cab. Most of the dust stirred from the explosion had thankfully settled, leaving the London air as fresh as it ever was. John turned to me as we waited.

"I feel like I've missed something. Did I miss something?"

"Nah," I said, smiling at Sherlock's mop of curls. "Just a nice friendly chat."

* * *

Sherlock took my offer to be his personal coffee slave seriously. The second we made it into the lab at St. Bart's I was sent straight back out to the canteen to fix his beverage of choice (black, two sugars) and a slice of cheesecake for John. I picked up a blueberry muffin for myself, not having eaten all morning, and wolfed it down outside the lab, afraid Sherlock would immediately kick me out if he saw me with anything edible in the proximity of his precious bomber trainers. I finished my muffin in three bites, brushed the crumbs off my cobalt cotton dress, and moved to open the door. In an unfortunate accident that sealed the deal on my lousy morning, a figure barreled into my back, sending me flying through the entrance and into the lab. I landed on my ass with my legs splayed open, soaked in Sherlock's coffee.

"Good to see the art of walking is not lost on you," Sherlock remarked, looking me over amusedly. "I would request that you get me more coffee, but I'm sure you were already planning to hop to it instead of relaxing on the floor."

Relaxing? That little bugger! If I wasn't his personal slave for the day, I would…"Oh my god, I am so sorry!"

The perpetrator of my tumble extended a hand to help me up, and I found myself staring into the blackest eyes I had ever seen, all thoughts of murdering Sherlock abandoned. The man in question was only a couple years older than me and had a friendly enough smile. He looked over my dress in dismay.

"Oh, your dress! I'll pay for the damage, it's my own fault. I'm so clumsy, Molly's always telling me…"

"Oh, Jim, again!" a new voice squeaked. The source turned out to be a mousy-haired woman in a lab coat hovering anxiously at Sherlock's left side. She gave Jim a nervous grin and beckoned him forward. Jim did so hesitantly, a smile dangerously close to adoration spreading across his face as he looked at Sherlock. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes. And uh…"

"John Watson," said John, visibly restraining an eye-roll. Molly turned and finally appeared to notice me, still dripping coffee on the floor.

"Julia Fields," I said wearily, picking myself up without Jim's help. He was still looking at me worriedly, and I offered him a half-assed smile that turned out as a grimace. Honestly, how the hell had he not seen me going through the door?

"Oh god oh god," he muttered, "You must be furious. I'm so sorry, I'm nearsighted, y'know, always forgetting my glasses. I didn't see you. And your dress is so beautiful, such a great rich color."

"Hey, it's all right," I said soothingly, softening at his explanation. The compliment certainly helped. "I'm blind as a bat without my contacts. Can't see two inches in front of my face. The dress is cotton. It'll wash out. And it's hardly the worst thing to happen to me this morning" Cue pointed glare at Sherlock. "Just one of those days."

I examined the dress, assessing the damage with a resigned sigh. A good portion of the top was now saturated with deep brown, and the vivid blue would forever bear the mark of Jim's clumsiness. It was, in fact, ruined. And I would have to walk around smelling like Sherlock's ridiculously bitter coffee for the rest of the day. But I, unlike _some _people (Ahem. _Sherlock._) was a decent person and I wasn't going to make poor Jim pay for an honest mistake. My good nature lasted until Sherlock opened his big mouth again.

"Julia, are you intending to bring my coffee any time soon or are you just going to stand around and chat?" he said, throwing me a sugarcoated smile that made him look distinctly psychotic. "Personal slave for the day, remember? We have an agreement."

He made it sound like I had signed a contract in blood. Well, I couldn't say no without throwing my whole high road approach down the drain. What the fuck had I been thinking making that offer? "Yes, your majesty," I muttered, wondering if I could risk a dash to the bathroom to wash up a bit before heading back down to the canteen.

"What was that, Julia?" Sherlock asked pointedly.

"I said: The spill, it was a travesty!" I called over my shoulder as I sauntered back out of the lab, just catching Molly ask "How do you know her, Sherlock?" in a distinctly jealous tone. Heh, looked like someone was smitten. Poor girl probably got her heart crushed on a daily basis.

I made it back the second time around without any dramatic accidents. Sherlock accepted his coffee without a thank you. Not that I had been expecting one in the first place, but one could always hope. I remembered his direct orders to stay out of the way and retreated to the corner, watching Sherlock work with interest. He was actually quiet. Very…intense. Before watching Sherlock, I had never thought it possible to actually _hear _a brain. Now, I was nearly able to listen to his thought process as he took apart every little detail; molding them and letting them grow until he had built a profile of the person behind the trainers.

"Go on then." I jumped, but Sherlock wasn't speaking to me. Poor John had already adopted the classic deer-in-the-headlights expression that was customary when one was unexpectedly made the object of Sherlock's attention.

"Mmm?"

"You know what I do. Go ahead," Sherlock said, gesturing at the trainers. From the look on John's face, an outside observer might think he had just been commanded to devour a bowl of live maggots. Had he actually been offered the choice, I'm sure John would've taken the maggots in a second. I shook my head and thanked my lucky stars Sherlock hadn't asked me to do anything more challenging than fetch coffee.

"No. I'm not going to stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and disseminate…" he said, but Sherlock interrupted quickly.

"An outside eye, a second opinion. Very useful to me."

"Yeah, right."

"No, really," insisted Sherlock, pulling a hurt expression that was so obviously fake it made me cringe. John sighed, successfully manipulated, and went ahead listing everything he knew about the trainers. I listened detachedly, wincing in sympathy for the poor man. I could imagine few things more hellish than trying to do Sherlock Holmes' job while the man himself sat back and silently judged you. Sure enough, after John finished he wasn't rewarded with overwhelming praise.

"Well, John, _really _well. Of course, you missed nearly everything of importance, but, um, you know…" Sherlock trailed off, voice reeking of smugness. I let out a sigh of relief the ordeal was over and that I hadn't been embarrassed in a similar fashion. I'd had enough humiliation at the hands of Sherlock Holmes for one day, thank you very much.

"Julia!" Shit. "Why don't you toddle on over here and offer your opinion?"

Mother_fucker_. This was one of his stupid fucking tests. He had let John get all the easy deductions out of the way just so he could watch me fail and belittle me again all because I had the audacity to move into the flat below him and flirt a little as a test of my own. And I couldn't say no without discrediting my peace effort because I had enslaved myself to him for the day. Oh, he was good. A brilliant, excellent, _manipulative fucking bastard. _I flounced over to Sherlock, having no intention of further embarrassing myself by _toddling_.

I couldn't reach any conclusions about the trainers John hadn't already covered. But I had to say something, goddammit, just to prove to Sherlock that I wasn't the complete idiot he took me for. I ran a desperate finger over the laces, scanning the shoes for any miniscule detail I could blow into some bullshit insight about the owner's life. And I noticed something.

"The laces have been changed," I announced, not daring to look at Sherlock for a reaction. "I don't know how many times. And…" I sniffed them, picking up a distinctly chemical odor. "They've been whitened. You can smell whatever he used to clean them. They were important to him. And they're stiff, so they haven't been used in a while." I remembered what I had first noticed when I came across them in my living room. "Wait…these aren't one of those retro designs at all. They're original. Very well-preserved."

"Oh, _very good_," said Sherlock, but I found it impossible to tell if he was being sarcastic. John looked impressed though, so maybe I hadn't failed completely. "Anything else?"

"Nope," I said, cringing in anticipation of whatever scathing comment Sherlock was preparing to throw at me. But Sherlock didn't say anything. He examined the trainers himself before offering his own infinitely more impressive analysis.

"The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them when they got dirty—" Ha! Point 1 for me! "—Changed the laces three…no _four _times. Even so, there are traces of flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old. You were right," he said to me. "They aren't retro, they're original. Limited edition: Two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine."

I gaped at him, the fact that I had actually gotten three things correct sinking in. Sherlock hadn't yelled at me! I hadn't completely fucked up! Jesus, I felt like singing.

"But there's still mud on them," John pointed out. "They look new."

"Someone's kept them that way," said Sherlock thoughtfully. "Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it."

"How the hell did you know that?" I blurted. Sherlock didn't glare at me. He just nodded towards the map on his computer screen in explanation.

"Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left these behind."

"That's fucking spectacular," I said before I could help myself. Sherlock gave me a wry look.

"You weren't as impressed earlier," he said pointedly. "And excessive cursing is a sign of an underdeveloped vocabulary."

"I was, actually," I replied, "But it's a lot more enjoyable to witness when I'm not at the receiving end! And sorry for offending your sweet virgin ears." John sniggered appreciatively.

"Your compliments would mean more if you didn't feel the need to immediately tack on a poorly contrived insult after," Sherlock said with a scowl.

"I could say the same to you," I shot back. John, in a noble effort to keep the peace, changed the subject.

"So what happened to the kid?"

"Something bad," said Sherlock. "He _loved _those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't let them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets…" he trailed off, staring into space with an almost dreamy expression falling over his features. "Oh! Carl Powers."

"Sorry, who?" John asked.

"Carl Powers, John," Sherlock said softly. John looked as bewildered as I felt.

"What is it?" he tried again.

"It's where I began." He rose abruptly, throwing on his Belstaff coat and swooping out the door with John on his heels. I tagged along after them, still coffee-stained, confused, and feeling very much like the third wheel. Ten minutes later, I was overcome with an intense wave of déjà vu when I found myself in the back of another cab, squeezed tightly between a curious John and thoughtful Sherlock. I could have been leading them to the cipher again, were it not for the fact that this time around I at least had some idea of what was happening.

"Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid—A champion swimmer—came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool, tragic accident," Sherlock mused. I listened quietly as he spoke about his suspicions regarding the incident: Murder, his favorite subject. My thoughts wandered to the woman who had cried over the phone, a mere mouthpiece in some psycho's sick plans. She was in a situation she had no way of handling, unable to do anything except hold on tight for the ride. In a way, we were similar: Both scared, both confused, and both in way over our heads. But I had made the choice to involve myself with Sherlock, and he wasn't dangerous like the bomber. At least I hoped not.

We arrived at Baker Street quickly, and before I could run back to my flat like a good little girl, Sherlock's hand enclosed over my shoulder. John was already inside. We were alone again. I wish I could say I wasn't nervous to be in his presence without the distraction of another human, but I truly was. And I was desperately in need of a shower. Needless to say, I wasn't in the mood to handle more of Sherlock's diatribe.

"I apologized for earlier," I said crossly, craving some coffee of my own (to drink, not wear) and none too happy about being kept from it. "What else do you want?"

Sherlock looked exceptionally uncomfortable. I waited, clearing my throat pointedly when he still didn't speak.

"I overreacted earlier," he said slowly, and I nearly choked in shock. "I spoke too harshly."

"Yeah, it was pretty hard to take," I agreed, warmed in spite of myself by his fumbling attempts at an apology. "I really didn't deserve it. It was all true though, to your credit." Dammit, my eyes were burning again just remembering all that shit he'd said. Fuck, I couldn't let Sherlock Holmes see me throw a tantrum like a little kid. _Conceal, don't feel, Jules. _I kept my head held high and looked him in the eyes. Sherlock was gazing at me curiously, like he couldn't quite work me out.

"What else did I get wrong?" he asked. Oh my god. His obsession with being right would almost be funny if I wasn't the one he was interrogating.

"Uh, let me think," I said, trying to remember all of his original deductions. "I'm pretty sure I'm straight. Maybe bicurious? I dunno, I don't like labels. You were right that I don't sleep around. I actually took more acid than heroin and I also messed around a bit with mescaline. Oh, and I don't have a BDSM kink. I just like Nabakov."

Sherlock nodded. I considered him for a moment, wondering if he would get all pissy again if I asked him why he was putting out his own effort to make amends. Ah, what the hell. He couldn't get worse than he'd been earlier, or so I hoped.

"Why are you doing this anyway?" I asked before I lost my nerve. "Did John make you? Not that I don't appreciate it and all, but you really don't seem like the type to apologize voluntarily."

"Yes, well, I do keep a policy about burning bridges," said Sherlock, gazing beyond my shoulder at the London horizon. "You never know when someone might come in useful."

"How could I be useful to you?" I asked, frowning. I wasn't fishing for compliments. I was just genuinely curious. I wasn't crazily intelligent, he appeared to have no interest whatsoever in the opposite sex, and he already had John to help him. What reason could he possibly have for keeping me around? Well, I did live downstairs, but Sherlock had said himself that social niceties meant nothing to him.

"John makes me fetch my own coffee," he answered with a smirk. Oh dear lord. What the hell had I gotten myself into?

* * *

**A/N: How would you lovely readers feel about fleshing out some of the briefly mentioned cases before Irene Adler swoops on the scene? I have an original case planned that's pretty crazy, but I think it would be pretty cool to bring life to The Speckled Blonde, The Geek Interpreter, and The Aluminium Cruth. It would give me time to cement character relationships a bit before our favorite Dominatrix comes along to fuck everything up. But anyways, click that little button and review, eh? It makes a world of difference.**


	4. Halfway to Progress

**A/N: Hugs! Big squishy hugs to everyone who reviewed! Yes, that was supposed to be read in awkward-wedding-Sherlock's voice. But seriously, working up the courage to update is always a big challenge for me, and your support means the world. Huge thanks to GeorgyanneWayson (I always read that as Watson), Lothelen, Bearer of Rings, elbafo (Once again, if you like Sherlock/OC stories, check out hers! She's an excellent writer), rycbar15, xxz0eyxx, fmxc17, EmmaB, Artemis-Max-Katniss-Holmes, Areus Bookworm, Rianna, supermegafoxyhot, and guest for your lovely support! Please enjoy this chapter. Terribly sorry it's a day late, but I wanted to make sure it was up to par quality wise and it took a little longer this time.**

**In other news, I posted a Janine one-shot for those of you interested in her character. The minor ladies of Sherlock don't get nearly enough love, and if you were wondering what the heck was going in poor Janine's head during HLV you might want to check it out. **

**Disclaimer: You kids know the drill. I don't own, you don't sue, m'kay?**

**Chapter 4: Halfway to Progress**

* * *

I didn't have any delusions that my accompanying Sherlock to the lab had magically breached the barrier between unfriendly acquaintance and reluctant camaraderie, so I was pleasantly surprised that Sherlock didn't immediately order me back to the depths of 221c when we finally made it in. I stood awkwardly in the hallway, not quite sure why Sherlock was still staring at me instead of dashing up the stairs to continue his work on the trainers. Being left in the dust would have been simpler, and I silently cursed his ability to make even an apology as uncomfortable as possible.

"Well?" he finally said when the silence had passed the boundary of mildly awkward and toddled along into ridiculously tense. I blinked.

"Well, what?"

"Do you plan on spending the rest of the day staring at walls, or are you actually going to do something useful with your time?" snapped Sherlock.

"Wait, how did you—" I paused and sighed resignedly. "I suppose it doesn't matter." I considered for a moment, weighing my options. Sherlock's vague offer was so very tempting, but at the same time, I didn't like the idea of being labeled under "Coffee Slave" one bit. Sherlock needed to know that I was a human being. I wasn't his personal servant, and, unlike John, I did not live with him. I was under no obligation to fulfill his every whim or desire. Best ask for clarification without coming across as nosy, then.

"Well, what exactly do you want me for?" I asked "I'm not going to fetch coffee for you all day every day. And believe it or not I actually have to work in…" I checked my phone. "…Three hours, and I'm ridiculously under-slept. But then again, you probably already knew that."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "And who said I wanted you all day every day?" Ouch. Despite my efforts, the sharpness of Sherlock's tongue could not be deterred. And he still hadn't clarified what exactly it was he expected from me. "You offered your assistance as an apology, and I thought I might extend the same courtesy."

"But you aren't offering _me_…oh," I sighed, realizing what he was implying. Dear god, was he really arrogant enough to believe that his company was adequate compensation for the entirely unnecessary and deliberate pain he had caused me? Best set the record straight then, but let him down gently. Sherlock Holmes, it seemed, could be set off by the slightest slip up. "You've already apologized. That's perfectly good enough for me. And while all of this is definitely more interesting than what goes on at the museum, it would be rather ungrateful of me to throw away the job you kindly offered."

Sherlock stared. And then he scowled. I frowned in confusion, unsure why my response had upset him.

"You did say personal slave for the _whole day_," he finally said, sounding every bit the petulant child. "It's only one o'clock. You haven't fulfilled your promise. It's rude to back out of an engagement, you know."

"Oh dear god, can we just forget all that personal slave bullshit?" I snapped, caught rather off guard by the fact that Sherlock was chastising _me _for being rude. "Look, if you actually need my help with something I'd be glad to assist, but I have better things to do than stand around fetching you things."

"Technically you wouldn't be standing," Sherlock pointed out. "You'd be fetching. And I never actually clarified what it was I wanted you to do. But of course, if you have so many other important tasks to accomplish, I wouldn't want to interfere." Ugh, sarcasm. How very mature.

"Fine," I sighed. "This is just a one time thing though, okay? I don't want any calls at four in the morning just because you're craving a cuppa." And to think, a week ago I would have loved the opportunity to spend more time in Sherlock's company. It was rather remarkable how much one busy morning with him had changed my view.

"You won't be doing much. John helps me find most everything. You'll just be the insurance," were his last, not very encouraging words as he dashed up the stairs. I huffed a sigh. Insurance. Well, it was better than entirely unwanted. I trudged after him wearily, somehow feeling lonelier than ever.

John was already situated in the living room, nestled next to a stack of medical tomes that probably weighed more than I did. He acknowledged my presence with a smile before turning back to his phone, peering at whatever he was reading concernedly.

"It's your brother," he informed Sherlock. "He's texting me now." Holy shit. There were two of them? I was torn between screaming and laughing and settled for choking quietly.

"Must be a root canal. You," Sherlock barked, throwing a finger in my direction. "Take John's laptop and print out anything you can on Carl Powers. Newspaper articles, photos, I need everything."

"Hold on, I don't want a near stranger rooting around on my laptop, Sherlock!" John snapped indignantly. "No offense, Julia."

"None taken," I said with a shrug. "I don't particularly want to violate your privacy, either." It was a bit of a lie. I would rather print out news articles than make coffee, even if it meant potentially stumbling on something unsavory in John's browser history.

"Thank you. Look Sherlock, he did say it was of national importance," John said. I was still trying to absorb the fact that Sherlock had _family_. It seemed more likely that he had popped out of a test tube in some cold laboratory.

"How quaint. _Queen and Country_," Sherlock sneered. His eyes fell on me, brow furrowed thoughtfully. I stiffened, fighting to keep my own head up lest I betray my discomfort. "Perhaps…"

"No," John said firmly. "You are not launching the poor unsuspecting girl on _Mycroft _of all people. No one deserves that sort of shock. And I should know."

"She's living downstairs, he's going to abduct her eventually," Sherlock mused, though the insult to his brother (Sherlock and Mycroft. Someone's parents wanted their kids bullied mercilessly) seemed to have cheered him considerably. "It took what, seven hours with you?" John shuddered delicately in remembrance.

"_She _has a name and is standing right here," I said crossly. "And I'd rather not be abducted, thank you very much. Especially not by any blood relative of yours."

"Well then, I'll just have to put my best man onto it," Sherlock said brightly. "Hurry up John, there's only five hours left! And you, find those articles. Don't be alarmed if the computer is slow. John's ample porn viewing has left it rampant with viruses."

"Sherlock!" gasped John. He stood abruptly. "Just…no, I'm getting out of here. Have at it, Julia. Good luck." I managed to catch his muttered "You're going to need it" as he left. I couldn't have agreed more. Well, now I had a task mildly more important than coffee fetching, but that didn't change the fact that I still had very little idea of what was happening.

"Uh, Sherlock?" I asked hesitantly, feeling rather like a mouse preparing to poke a sleeping cat. "Can you explain what's going on, please? I know there's a bomber and I'm assuming the woman over the phone is a hostage, but _why_? What did the shoes and Carl Powers have to do with anything?"

"The bomber will blow her up in five hours unless I discover how Carl Powers died and who killed him," Sherlock snapped. "It's a test. A game. And we have extremely limited time, so I'd appreciate it if you'd get to work instead of asking stupid questions."

That shut me up. I retrieved John's laptop, typed in a search for _carl powers seizure 1989, _and delivered the resultant information to Sherlock. He pawed through the articles and photographs, and I prepared to make my retreat before I got my head bitten off again. Sherlock stopped me.

"No, no. Don't leave. I think better out loud, and it's much more fulfilling when there's a recipient for my brilliance. You don't have to say anything. Just sit quietly and look impressed."

I sat, and even though I couldn't help but inwardly roll my eyes at his arrogance, I was a bit flattered he had actually requested my company. It was amazing what a simple apology could accomplish. And sitting and looking impressed was a task even I could complete without committing some grave error. The second I was situated and still not showing any signs of asking stupid questions, Sherlock began speaking, and I was utterly captivated within moments. His voice stretched, deepened and some how became more melodic when he was like this, talking through his thought processes rather than barking insults.

"The first question, of course, is how the bomber came across these. Simple enough conclusion: He killed Carl Powers, kept the shoes as a keepsake, a trophy, if you will. Serial killers often do; it cements the fantasy of their crime and allows them to relive it over and over to battle the ever-present inferiority complex and indulge the malignant narcissistic tendencies most deal with. Killers are rarely happy. It's obvious he's killed before, of course, if blowing someone up is a mere game to him. Carl must have been one of his earlier victims. Maybe Carl bullied him, and the murder was his attempt at revenge. Yes, that would explain why he's kept the trainers well preserved over all these years. But why keep the trainers, of all things? He could have taken anything from the locker. Why the shoes?" He trailed off, chewing his lip and visibly straining to think.

"Oh, that's obvious," I blurted without thinking. Sherlock stared at me incredulously, and I restrained the resultant wave of guilt that I had already spoiled another opportunity to witness his remarkable psyche at work. "Well, the trainers must have been evidence, right?" I elaborated quickly. "I mean, if he went through all this trouble to set up a game he must be pretty intelligent. Intelligent enough to realize that removing the trainers would look suspicious. So he must have had another reason for taking them. They could have had some indicator that it was murder. You know, something nothing else in the locker had." I immediately regretted speaking up, and, anticipating the blow to my intelligence before it fell, quickly backtracked. "Sorry. I'll stay quiet and look impressed."

"Oh, stupid, _stupid!_" Sherlock growled, tearing at his own hair. I winced, unsurprised but still a bit hurt. "No, don't make that face. Of course that's why he took them. They were evidence. And that's why he directed me towards them. They weren't a trophy at all. Fetch the shoes and my microscope, will you? Never mind, don't touch the microscope—"

"Don't worry, I won't break it," I sighed. "I was actually rather good at chemistry in High School. I know how to handle one perfectly well, thanks."

I retrieved the wanted items and promptly returned to the kitchen, trying not to visibly glow with the relief of being right. I was elated that my interruption had actually been helpful. Sherlock, it seemed, was less hostile now that I had proved myself to be slightly more than a complete imbecile. He actually managed a thank you that didn't sound forced.

"You're welcome," I said happily. "Need anything else? Coffee?" Sherlock smirked.

"No. My scalpel would be highly appreciated though." Scalpel. Seriously, I wouldn't have been surprised if Sherlock was a certified brain surgeon or a serial killer himself. Maybe both. I fetched the scalpel and a pair of tweezers for good measure, strongly suspecting he was about to rip apart one of the trainers. Sure enough, Sherlock happily went to work tearing out the sole of the left shoe, ignoring me once more. I didn't mind. Watching him work was more interesting than anything I could've done in my own flat. I took the opportunity to relax, spacing out a bit as I followed the dance of his fingers around the microscope or the slight narrowing of his eyes when he discovered something interesting. The silence was, for the first time, entirely companionable. I couldn't be certain, but it seemed like Sherlock appreciated having an interested party watching him work. Maybe it helped keep that head of his inflated. In any case, he was radiating far less hostility than before, and I did my part by staying quiet. The minutes flew by, and two insult-free hours had passed when Mrs. Hudson bustled in, carrying a welcome tea tray.

"Oh, Julia!" she exclaimed in earnest surprise when she noticed me. "I had no idea you came up here. Good to see you reaching out a bit. I was afraid you were going to stay locked away downstairs forever, except for dashing off to work. Are you treating her well, Sherlock?"

"Mmm, yes. He is, actually," I said brightly. Sherlock, in an act that scared the living daylights out of Mrs. Hudson and mildly amused me, slammed his fists on the table and shot to his feet.

"Poison! Of course. The evidence was a trace of the murder weapon left behind! That's why he took them, and that's why he directed me to them," he said, running a hand through his unruly hair. I watched him lazily, trying not to be too appreciative of the way his deep purple shirt clung to his alabaster skin.

"What was the murder weapon?" I asked, voicing the question he'd been hoping for.

"Clostridium botulinium," Sherlock said happily. "It's one of the deadliest poisons in the world. Remember the shoelaces? The boy suffered from eczema. It would be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes to London, the poison takes effect, paralyzes his muscles, and he drowns. Delayed action murder."

"O-oh," I said, mulling it over and realizing a bit of a flaw in his logic. "Wouldn't the autopsy have picked that up?"

"It's virtually undetectable, especially since it was administered through his skin rather than intravenously or orally. He was swimming when it took effect. The chlorine would have wiped all external hints on the body. There were tiny traces left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet."

And he was off again, skipping over to his laptop and typing away rapidly. I rose to my feet reluctantly, more than a little sad that I now had to return to my boring old flat and boring old life. Being with Sherlock was like a drug in itself, and it was a welcome relief losing myself in his chatter. But he clearly didn't need me any more, and I wasn't going to push my luck. Not when things were going so well.

"Yeah, I've got my shift in forty minutes," I announced to no one in particular, though Mrs. Hudson nodded sympathetically, still holding the tea. "And I wouldn't want to be a bother anyway," I muttered. Oh dear. That came out more bitter than I intended. Thank god Sherlock didn't seem to hear. I quickly departed, thanking Mrs. Hudson for bringing the tea up because _someone _should show appreciation for the poor woman's efforts and it didn't look like Sherlock was going to. I brushed into an exhausted looking John on the stairs. He acknowledged me with a weak smile and did a slight double take when he noticed the easy grin on my face.

"Oh, it went well then?" he asked, looking surprised I wasn't streaked with tears or snot. "Sherlock didn't…"

"No, he was quite agreeable," I said mildly. "It went very well. The case is all solved. I'm sure he'll be happy to explain it in great detail." John sighed.

"Yeah, I'm sure." He looked at me searchingly, as if half-expecting me to burst out in spontaneous sobs from spending over two hours alone with Sherlock Holmes. "Good to see he didn't, I dunno—"

"Dissect me?" I filled in dryly. "He got it out of the way earlier. Don't worry, I'm fine. Got to hurry though, I'm running late."

I skipped down the stairs, telling myself firmly it was pathetic to be disappointed that Sherlock no longer needed me. Not that I had done anything particularly helpful in the first place, but his attitude towards me did seem to have improved considerably and it seemed a shame to return to my own decrepit flat now. I shook any self-pitying thoughts away and retreated back into the shell of my "old" life. It felt like an age since I had first moved in, excited by the mere prospect of staring at a couple moldy walls. Sherlock had somehow managed to change things with only few short interactions, and now my job seemed ridiculously insignificant when there was a psychotic bomber running about. Lost in thought, I almost missed the beeping of my phone. I withdrew it from my purse, frowning. Who could have texted me? I knew practically no one. It could be my parents, or Mrs. Hudson, or maybe Sherlock, because he _would _hunt down my number so he could pester me at all hours now that we had moved on from open hostility.

_Hey Doll-face,_

_Hate to mess things up for you when everything's going so swimmingly, but it would be a bit unfair to let poor Sherl become your pal without knowing what he's getting into. After what happened to the last one, you should probably wear a warning sign. I can help with that, sweetheart. I'd tell you to give me a call, but it seems I've already gone ahead and done the deed. Don't feel the need to thank me._

_xoxoxo_

_M_

Who the fuck was M? A prank text? I didn't know how any kids could have gotten my number and I didn't like the idea of some stranger being able to reach me one bit. But how could a complete stranger know about Sherlock? And _after what happened to the last one_? What the hell were they implying? I looked back up the stairs, wondering if I should run up now and show Sherlock the text, just in case. But it probably wasn't important. Just a stupid joke from a couple particularly crafty teenagers. Sherlock didn't exactly lie low, after all. It wasn't implausible that a fan had discovered he had a new neighbor and decided to send harassing texts to scare me off. I shook my head and headed back down, putting the message out of my mind. I had a thrilling two hours of organizing paperwork to look forward to, after all.

* * *

I'm not going to lie and say I wasn't disappointed when Sherlock didn't request further assistance from me the next day, or even drop by to inform me whether he'd managed to save the poor woman. I was a bit sad that I still hadn't proved myself useful enough. Well, more than a bit. I was quite devastated, because without the distraction of Sherlock, I was back to being virtually friendless and more isolated than ever. But I told myself it was for the best, and getting mixed up with a bomber certainly wasn't what my parents had in mind when they sent me to London to recover. They probably wouldn't have wanted me socializing with someone like Sherlock either, being concerned about appearances as they were. I hadn't cared what they thought before, but using it as an excuse to stay out of Sherlock and John's lives was a minor consolation I needed to bear the brunt of my loneliness. I did "productive" things: Read, write, work, shop. It wasn't even close the excitement of helping solve a real crime, but it was better than nothing.

I did, however, make it a point to check up on Sherlock in small ways. I followed his website obsessively and puzzled over what _Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Colombia _and _Raoul de Santos, Houseboy, Botox _could possibly mean, as John's blog hadn't been updated since the flats across the way had been bombed. The second message, as it turned out, would be clarified by a telling news story about Raoul de Santos being acquitted for the murder of Connie Prince, Makeover Queen. The bomber must have directed Sherlock to the death, and he'd promptly solved it just like Carl Powers. Mrs. Hudson came down with biscuits while I was watching the story and stayed for a bit when she saw what was on the screen. She actually sniffled a couple of times.

"Oh, it's a real shame. Another natural talent wasted," she commented sadly. "It's so hard knowing how to pick out good clothes on your own. I'll only buy things in deep plum from now on. It's the best color for my complexion." She looked me over thoughtfully. "You'd look lovely in sage, I think, with your eyes. Or maybe olive."

"Mmm," I hummed, eyes glued to the screen. The story had changed, the scene now another demolished building that looked painfully familiar to Baker Street two days ago. My stomach flipped over.

"The explosion, which ripped through several floors killing twelve people, caused irreparable damage to the building in question," the grim-faced reporter at the scene was saying. "Reconstruction is already being planned, and is scheduled to start at…" I tuned out, eyes burning. Gas explosion indeed. It was sickening that the bomber had no qualms whatsoever about taking away twelve innocent lives and leaving twelve unsuspecting families broken. I swallowed heavily.

"Sherlock didn't solve it then?" I asked. Mrs. Hudson looked confused. "Connie Prince was the death the bomber directed him to, right? The bomb wouldn't have gone off if Sherlock had worked it out." I struggled to keep my voice calm, but inside I was shaking with irrational anger. Of course, even if Sherlock had failed to solve it, it wasn't his fault the bomber was a fucking lunatic. But I dearly wished he had at least _asked _me to help. It probably wouldn't have made a difference, but at least I wouldn't have to feel so damn guilty.

"No dear, he solved it," Mrs. Hudson said gently, inherently sensing my misguided rage. "The hostage, she…started to describe him. It was her mistake."

"Oh," I said softly, finding I felt better knowing it had been the hostage's fault and feeling even guiltier as a result. "I just wish I could've done something."

"There was nothing you could do, dear. Sherlock always works alone. John's the exception, of course. I was a bit surprised to see you two looking so chummy the other day, to be honest. Usually he just shuts people out completely and deals with the consequences himself," Mrs. Hudson said pointedly, as though she expected an explanation for the sudden phenomenon of Sherlock actually letting someone in. I avoided her eyes, not wanting to explain that we hadn't been "chummy" in the very least. Sherlock had probably only put up with me because he couldn't stand passing up an opportunity to have complete power over another human being for the day. He did like being in charge.

I was saved the trouble of answering her when my phone screen lit up. I checked it gingerly, half fearing it might burst into flame. Things did seem to be spontaneously exploding rather frequently, after all. The text was, once again, from an unknown number:

_Tick tock, tick tock, sweetheart._

_You want Sherlock's attention? Daddy can help you there, darling. Just say the word. Of course, even if you don't, I'll go ahead and make sure Sherl never forgets you anyway. I'm nice like that. Can't say he'll be particularly impressed, but you'll certainly stick in his mind for a while. Won't do you much good if you're in prison of course, but beggars can't be choosers. Maybe you should really murder someone and see where that gets you. But I'll work with what I'm given._

_Be careful what you wish for._

_xoxoxo_

_M_

My hands trembled. A drop of cold sweat trickled sluggishly down my hairline. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. What the fuck was I supposed to do now? I knew, of course, exactly what "M" was referring to, but how he/she knew about it was a complete mystery. It had been over two years. How the hell had this asshole managed to dig it up? It struck me, suddenly, that perhaps the person texting me was the bomber, who had certainly shown an unusual knack for uncovering successfully pulled crimes. And now, it seemed, I was being targeted. Or threatened to be targeted. Either way, I was in deep shit. And I couldn't go to Sherlock because he would ask what the message meant, and I couldn't explain that without acquiring an immediate one-way ticket to some cold jail cell. And I wasn't going to let that happen. They'd have to drag me away screaming.

"Are you all right dear? You don't look well at all." Mrs. Hudson's voice jolted me rudely from thoughts. I looked up at her with wide, alarmed eyes that did nothing to conceal my new troubles. I tried to find my voice and came up with nothing but a pained gurgle. It seemed shock had temporarily withered my vocal cords.

"Mm," was all I managed, and it did little to assuage Mrs. Hudson's obvious concern.

"You just went a bit…lost, all of a sudden." She looked at me with a careful steadiness that betrayed long years of dancing around the delicate. "I'll leave you be. Let me know if you need anything. My door is always open."

She left before I could protest. It would have been better if she'd stayed. The flat, once a secret to be unlocked, was now not nearly as desirable in comparison to my old, mystery-free house and old, boring parents. The ghost of the trainers lingered by the fireplace, and for the first time I realized fully that the flesh once filling them had long since rotted away, tucked neatly under six feet of cold earth. It was an unwelcome thought. I shivered violently and wished for clean walls, open windows, and a hot, clear sky. When the wishing lost its appeal, I spent hours wondering what "M" wanted from me. I had a good sum of money tucked away in my account, and if they knew as much as they alluded to I would gladly hand over all of it. But if my suspicions were correct and "M" was the bomber, it seemed unlikely that the sole purpose behind the messages was petty blackmail. The lunatic had, after all, threatened to blow up at least three people and actually killed twelve.

I managed to stay well away from Sherlock for a good three days. The looming terror that the bomber would make good on their promise to tell him everything was certainly a factor in my avoiding him like the plague, but I also possessed a completely irrational desire to prove I wasn't so starved for attention that any scraps thrown to me by a near sociopath seemed like progress. I didn't want to admit how pathetically lonely I was. And if the bomber did tell Sherlock all my dirty little secrets, I was guaranteed to stay lonely for a good long while.

It was, ironically enough, Sherlock who thrust himself back into my life. After a night of restless, uneasy dreams, I had given up my beauty sleep as a lost cause and resolved to fix myself a cup of tea in hopes of curing my insomnia. It was rather difficult to get good rest while an anonymous psycho was threatening to uproot my entire life. My phone beeped as I sipped my chamomile, and for a moment, my heart paused. I contemplated ignoring it, decided that I'd be more likely to get an unpleasant surprise if I did, and checked the text with no small amount of terror. It wasn't from the anonymous harasser, but any relief that brought me was short lived when I realized who had now started texting me. It seemed Sherlock had somehow dug up my number after all.

_Strangled by assassin. Need lemon tea with honey, anti-inflammatories, and marshmallows for sore throat. Bring up immediately._

_SH_

I stared at the screen in bewilderment, not sure whether I should be surprised that Sherlock had apparently been strangled by an assassin or that _I _was the one he was contacting for help. Then again, my name hadn't been included. Maybe he had accidentally sent it to me instead of Mrs. Hudson. I crafted a response that would give him an opportunity to inform me if the text hadn't been meant for me without out-right asking him.

_How did you get my number? And why would you need marshmallows for a sore throat?_

_Julia_

His message came through immediately.

_Mrs. Hudson is terrible at keeping her flat safe from intruders. Incidentally, the door is unlocked. And gelatin is easily swallowed and does an excellent job of coating the throat when irritated. _

_SH_

Well, it hadn't been a mistake then. I tried to feel annoyed that he had texted me with orders to make him tea at 3 a.m., but if Sherlock really had been strangled the least I could do was help ease the pain a bit. I gathered advil, tea, honey, and a bag of marshmallows (thank god I had been struck with a s'mores craving earlier that week) and headed up, edging into 221b with trained apprehension. When five seconds had passed and I still hadn't been greeted with an explosion, exceptionally disturbing smell, or booby trap, I went ahead and set about preparing Sherlock's tea. The man himself stumbled in thirty minutes later, supported heavily by John. A set of vibrant plum fingerprints had blossomed on his neck.

"Tea," he croaked, collapsing on the couch with a sigh. I raised an eyebrow.

"Got it here," I said, bringing him his requested items. John snatched the marshmallows away before Sherlock could tear his teeth in, and was greeted with a deeply reproachful glower the doctor paid little heed to.

"No," he said in a voice that made it clear he'd been in the military. "You've not eaten a single real meal all week. The last thing we need is you crashing and burning after too much sugar on an empty stomach."

"John," Sherlock half-whispered, half-whined in a tone reminiscent of a toddler on the brink of a tantrum. I gazed at John imploringly.

"Just a couple. The gelatin will help the irritation." John pursed his lips, decided it wasn't worth starting a fight over, and handed over the marshmallows with a weary sigh. I examined the pair of them curiously, wondering if anyone was going to offer an explanation for I was being kept up at such an ungodly hour. When no one did, I prompted them myself. "So you really were strangled then."

"Only a bit," Sherlock wheezed, and I choked a laugh at the utter absurdity of it. I was relieved, too, that neither Sherlock nor John seemed to be treating me differently. "M" hadn't made good on his promise yet. Maybe it had just been a bluff. I contemplated the empty spot on the couch carefully, wondering if Sherlock would kick me if I sat down. I decided it was worth the risk and went ahead. Sherlock showed no intention of maiming me, though he did give me a bit of a look.

"Care to tell me how?" I asked mildly. Sherlock predictably said nothing, but John launched into an extensive explanation. Once he started talking, I found I was too sleepy to care much, but I did catch bits and pieces like "lost Vermeer was a fake", "Security guard killed", "Planetarium", and, of course, "Sherlock was brilliant." I offered him a grateful smile but couldn't quite stifle my yawn. It seemed that my body was perfectly ready for sleep now that Sherlock and John were accounted for.

"You go and get some rest," said John with enough empathy to make me wonder how many long nights he'd spent aiding Sherlock. "Sorry for keeping you up so late. And thanks for bringing up the tea and advil." I noticed he pointedly didn't mention the marshmallows.

"Mm, I will, thanks. It's way past my bedtime," I agreed, turning one last smile on a still-scowling Sherlock. "You take it easy. Give me a call if you need anything."

Sherlock said nothing, but I caught a slight softening in his eyes and the set of his mouth before I made my departure. I slept soundly that night.

* * *

I awoke the next morning refreshed, relaxed, and a lot less worried now that it appeared the texts had indeed been an empty threat. It was annoying, but I could handle it. I scooted into the bathroom to get ready for the day, taking note that the circles beneath my eyes had diminished considerably. Other than that, it was the same old me: hair that couldn't decide if it wanted to be blonde or brown, eyes that looked green in certain lighting, eyebrows slightly inclined towards bushiness if I didn't tend to them, and a reasonably full mouth. I turned away from my reflection with a sigh and went about making myself presentable. It would be nice to go out and get a bit of a break. Maybe see a movie or go to the library and find something to read. The doorbell rang just as I was attempting to zip up my favorite blush-colored sundress. I groaned.

"JUST A MINUTE!" I hollered, giving up the dress as a lost cause and opting for a blouse and skirt instead. I threw open the door, expecting to see a tea-laden Mrs. Hudson or demanding Sherlock. Instead, I was met with an exhausted looking John, more grim-faced than I'd ever seen him.

"Oh, hello," I greeted carefully, scanning his expression. He looked…angry. At me? My insides turned icy. "Do you need something?"

"What do you know about the bomber?" asked John, his voice flat. My heart plummeted past my stomach and settled somewhere in the vicinity of my knees. Fuck_. _I struggled to keep my face blank and my words calm.

"I know they direct Sherlock to unusual cases and blow up hostages if he doesn't solve them in the allotted time," I said finally, unable to meet John's eyes. To my surprise, he didn't explode at me. He just sighed, ran a hand through his sandy hair, and closed his eyes.

"He gave us six pips at the beginning when he sent Sherlock the pink phone," he explained, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, Julia, I need you to come up with me. A hostage will die if you don't. It's a teenage girl this time, we think. Then again, it was a kid for the last one and an old blind woman before that so maybe this is a step in the right direction…" He laughed ruefully.

"Of course I'll come up," I said, barely keeping my voice from cracking. I knew what was happening, of course. How could I not after those creepy texts? It seemed they hadn't been a cruel bluff after all. "But I'm not sure I understand. Why do you need _me_?" Best get it over with. Find out if Sherlock had discovered the reason I'd started snorting heroin, moved to London, and kept my dead boyfriend's necklace around my throat.

"We just got the fifth pip," John said sadly, looking me with unbridled sympathy. It seemed Sherlock hadn't yet managed to puzzle things through. Or if he had, he'd neglected to tell John. I wasn't sure if I was relieved or furious. "And the case to go with it. Julia…the clue he gave us was a picture of you. You with a boy. The hostage said you have something to share with us."

Shit. He was going to make me tell them myself.

**A/N: Channeling my inner Moffat with a nice cliffhanger. Aren't I the sweetest? I have the rest of Julia's involvement in TGG planned and it should be concluding in a couple of chapters. After that, it's on to the original/briefly mentioned cases! Once again, sorry this is a day late, and thanks again for the overwhelming support. While I love writing this story and have lots of great ideas, your feedback is what keeps me posting, so make sure you leave a review! **


	5. The Fifth Pip

**A/N: Sorry for the super late update! I've been absolutely swamped with schoolwork these past couple weeks and haven't had much writing time. But hopefully some of you guys are still reading, because I'm one of those sad needy writers that need lots of feedback to keep writing. Speaking of reviews, thank you to GeorgyAnneWayson, Lothelen, rycbar15, elbafo (give The Mutual Suicide Pact and 15 Minutes a look), Anna, xxz0eyxx, EmmaB, supermegafoxyhot, Bearer of Rings, Shae, and guest! The support seriously means everything to me.**

**This took a lot of time to write, and I was suffering from a severe lack of inspiration for how to approach the subject matter of this chapter, but hopefully the effort will show. Fair warning right here—Serious mentions of drug abuse in this chapter, as well as one umbrella-wielding pompous ass. Proceed with caution, my friends! And if there are any inaccuracies, chalk them up to poetic license and take it easy. I did my best to make it realistic, but no one is perfect. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, Jon Snow. Er…yeah, that didn't turn out quite right. I know nothing too, though it's hard to surpass Jon's levels of whiny idiocy. **

**Chapter 5: The Fifth Pip**

* * *

There was nothing to do except follow John up to 221b. I had nowhere to run, not a thing to say, and even if I offered the most heartfelt apology in the world it wouldn't change the fact that what Sherlock and John were about to discover would change their view of me permanently. And to think that just last night, I had been so content with the world after bringing Sherlock his tea and seeing him soften genuinely for the first time. Dragging my feet up the stairs took far more effort than it should have. I kept my eyes on my toes and didn't dare glance at John. He moved to open the door for me, but I beat him to it. Chivalry wasn't going to make this any easier.

The first thing I noticed was that the picture John had mentioned had been tacked to the corkboard above the couch, interspersed with what looked like every police report on Alex's death. I moved towards the younger me with an undeserved tranquility, catching phrases like _multiple head trauma _and _driving under influence_. And there I was in the midst of all of it, three years younger and whole lifetime softer, full cheeked and grinning innocently. Alex looked a good deal worse, his eyes already too glassy to stare through me the way he used to. My own eyes prickled. I blinked rapidly and attempted to swallow the lump rising in my throat.

"Alex Welton, twenty-seven-years-old at the time of death, crashed his father's Mazda into a tree and got his head bashed in against the windshield." I jumped at the proximity of Sherlock's velvet voice to my ear, wondering how he had managed to slink over so silently. Maybe I had been too lost in thought to hear, or suffering from a literally deafening shock. I refused to acknowledge his presence, staring blankly at the photograph.

"His girlfriend was in the car too," Sherlock continued, paying no heed to my obvious discomfort and not even bothering to step back. "Suffered from head trauma severe enough to leave her unconscious for several hours. She phoned the police and ambulance when she awoke, as the crash had occurred on a nearly abandoned road. Welton was pronounced dead upon arrival. The girlfriend suffered nothing more than a concussion and was released from the hospital the next day." I edged away from him, finding my voice buried deep beneath my imminent panic.

"If you're trying to scare a confession out of me, don't bother," I finally choked out. "I'm going to talk no matter what if it means I can save whoever it is this time. Can you explain what's happening and how much you know? I get the basics of the whole secret-spilling spiel, but I don't want to repeat something you've already worked out, _please._" It all came out a bit rushed, but considering the circumstances I was rather proud of how calm I sounded.

"You may want to sit down," Sherlock said without any trace of empathy. He gestured to one of the kitchen chairs, resting innocently in the juncture between his own leather armchair and John's overstuffed loveseat. I obeyed even though my limbs seemed to have turned to jelly, the sense of impending doom finally starting to overwhelm me. Sherlock sat, John sat, and for a horrible second they both just stared at me like they could see all of me, which I had expected from Sherlock but not from sweet, bland, oatmeal-jumpered _John. _ The silence stretched onward, but I couldn't summon the courage to speak up myself. I prayed that one of them would break the ice, even if it meant breaking me in the process.

"The bomber texted me the photograph on the bulletin along with the following message," Sherlock finally said, flashing his pone screen. I could have hugged him in relief. I knew better, and dutifully read the proffered text instead:

_Hey, Curly-Q!_

_Someone's been a bad girl. Or maybe you've just been a bad boy for neglecting your research. I'm disappointed, sweetie. Ask poor Jules downstairs what happened to her last boy-toy if you want a real show. She's gotta tell you herself, of course, but ordinary people _do _need a push sometimes. I've got you covered there, sexy._

_Kisses!_

"It took Lestrade all of twenty minutes to dig up everything he could on your last 'boy-toy'," He withdrew a paper, reading aloud. "Julia Magdalene Fields, in the car at the time of the crash, suffered from a grade three concussion and two fractured ribs. Witness claimed that Alex Welton was under the influence of 400 micrograms of lysergic acid diethylamide and 150 micrograms of cocaine at the time of the accident and had insisted he drive her home before curfew earlier that evening—"

"Stop, just—" I winced when Sherlock glowered at me, but I simply couldn't handle his theatrics. Hearing the cold hard facts laid out bare in Sherlock's utterly flat voice was simply too much to take. If it had to happen, I wanted it to be in my own words. Not some ancient police report. "Please. Uh, John said the hostage left a message. Could I hear it maybe, so I know what I need to tell you?"

Sherlock frowned, probably pissed that he wasn't allowed to continue his dramatic recitation of his gathered information, but I wasn't in any mood for his showing off and something in my expression must have made that abundantly clear because he withdrew the pink phone with only a little huff of annoyance.

"I prerecorded the message," he explained. I managed a nod, bracing myself for the onslaught of weepy teenage girl. Sure enough, the message was nearly indecipherable between the breathy sobs, and my mental preparation did little to prevent the wave of nausea that came with the poor girl's sniffles.

"This one's a bit…boring. Ordinary, I'm afraid," said the voice over the phone, choking and desperate beneath the layers of snot and tears. I blinked back the burning in my own eyes, examining my nails so I wouldn't have to look at Sherlock. "But honesty is…the best…policy, Sherlock and your little…sweetheart downstairs has been…very n-naughty. Poor Alex found out…t-the hard way. I'll teach her a lesson…just for you, my _sweet_. G-go ahead and a-ask her what happened and she better explain…or I'll send this dumb _s-slut _six feet under just like C-Carl Powers."

The message cut off in a series of heart-wrenching chokes. John, who had previously remained completely silent, uttered a single pained "Jesus Christ" and pinched the bridge of his nose. I wasn't sure if I wanted to scream every curse on the planet or break into sobs myself, but I knew now was not the time, in any case. Sherlock was the only one in the room who remained unaffected.

"Must say, I didn't expect _you _of all people to be involved in a murder," he said brightly. I choked, gaping helplessly.

"M-murder?"

"Of course," Sherlock said with one of his patented _Don't-be-an-idiot _looks. "With the exception of Ian Monkford, the bomber has only directed me to unusual murders passed off as accidents or covered up completely. Carl Powers, Connie Prince, Alex Woodbridge. Obviously Alex Welton didn't die in a car crash, and the bomber wouldn't want you to explain yourself if you hadn't been involved somehow. Simple enough conclusion: You murdered your boyfriend. But why? He didn't abuse or threaten you. You wouldn't keep his necklace if he did. It's a token to remind you of your guilt. Perhaps he wanted to marry you, and you weren't quite as keen. A bit extreme, but understandable. Or maybe you wanted out of his drug problems, and he was unwilling to comply."

"God, _no!_" I snapped, glowering at him in utter disbelief. Sherlock actually thought murder was an acceptable way out of an unwanted marriage. No, he thought _I _thought that. Dear Lord, did I really come off as that cold-blooded? "Of course I didn't murder him. Don't be so romantic, it isn't nearly as dramatic as all that."

"Not romantic," Sherlock spat resentfully. "Logical."

"Uh-huh, no. _You _like to think everyone constantly has an ulterior motive," I said accusingly. "Everything always has to be larger than life with some hidden agenda. I didn't murder Alex. He died in a car crash, and I was in the car at the time."

"Then why would the bomber—" John cut in, but I didn't let him finish. I was about two seconds away from having some seriously embarrassing mental breakdown, and I was going to save the poor hostage's life before it happened. But it needed to all come out right now, and without any interruptions or I would never have the courage to finish.

"Look, I'll tell you what happened, but please, _please_ don't interject with your usual smart-assery, okay?" I looked at Sherlock pleadingly, trying to show him just how damn hard this was. "Believe it or not, it's actually quite difficult to condemn myself to spending a good portion of my life in jail."

"Ah, so it _was _somehow your fault," Sherlock said triumphantly. "But why would you—"

"What the _fuck _did I just say?" I hissed furiously, and something in my eyes must have conveyed the sheer depth of my lack of patience because Sherlock actually shut his trap and _winced. _Hell hath no fury, indeed. "Sorry," I added, not meaning it in the least. "Okay, the police reports are all right except for one crucial detail. They all say he was driving his daddy's car under influence and ended up spinning off the road and into a tree, right? Bashed his head into the windshield, dead within minutes."

A nod. I continued, rather awed at this newfound power to silence the mighty Sherlock Holmes.

"I was the one driving the car." This utterly condemning statement was only met by more silence. "What, you actually want me to elaborate? I thought pointless details bored you."

"Not in this case," Sherlock said, fingers steepled under his chin and eyes glinting keenly. It was my turn to cower now, but under the circumstances it was pretty understandable. My deepest darkest secret was being brutally extracted from me by a psychotic bomber in front of two of my only three friends. To say I was uncomfortable was a gross understatement. "I assume you were the one 'under the influence'?"

"We both were. We had gone to a party early that night, and there were a lot of drugs. You name it, someone had taken it in the last two hours. I was only into acid at that point and wouldn't go near any of the other stuff. One of the designated drivers had snorted a shitload of crystal meth, and the rest weren't much better. I wanted to go home as soon as I got there, and I was still pretty lucid. A bit out of it, but I could see straight and walk properly. Alex was a complete wreck. I don't even know for sure exactly what he'd taken, but he could barely stand and was certainly in no fit state to drive. And I didn't trust any of his 'friends' to take us home safely."

I sighed, letting my eyes drift to the empty windows, the skull on the mantelpiece, my picture on the corkboard still smiling blithely. Anything except look at John and Sherlock. It had been awhile since I had sifted through my memories of that night. It was easier to keep them at arm's length, always present but never intrusive. A little niggling guilt to carry with me in case I ever tried to do anything else stupid, but not enough to take over my entire life. I was good at separating the past from the present. Now though, each memory was as vivid as another photograph—Alex's beery breath and warm weight on my shoulder, the leering faces of his friends, white powder spotting their nostrils and hands groping blindly.

"Julia?" John asked quietly. I met his eyes reluctantly, knowing my own were incriminatingly bright. I breathed out the unpleasant sounds and smells, letting them fly out the windows and drown in the watery sky. I was ready to continue.

"I hadn't wanted to go in the first place. My parents were out of town and I had no one I could call if things went…if they went wrong. I didn't know what I could do. I didn't want to stay there another minute, I was desperate, and eventually I just sort of offered to drive us home myself. At the time I couldn't think of another option, I was so out of it. I made it half the way easily enough, but then this goddamn coyote just appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the road and I swerved to avoid it."

I swallowed heavily. Sherlock was examining me carefully, a flicker of something I couldn't place shining just behind his eyes. I looked away quickly before I could react.

"I, uh, managed to get out before we hit the tree and banged my head pretty badly. The airbags didn't activate and Alex wasn't so lucky. I was only out cold for a couple of minutes. I knew he was dead the second I saw him. There was just too much blood, and I didn't know what to do."

"And you covered up your involvement in his death for two years," Sherlock stated, tipping forward to get a closer look at my expression. "How?"

"Moving him to the driver's seat wasn't too difficult. I managed to tip him over so it looked like he'd smashed his head against the other side of the windshield and smeared the blood around a bit for authenticity. I knew it would take up to six hours to test clean if they took a blood sample, which was likely considering the circumstances. So I waited, pretended I'd been unconscious for far longer and couldn't find my phone when I woke up. Then I called the ambulance and—Well, you can figure out the rest. No one thought to question me since they thought I'd been unconscious for so long. I was in shock by the time the ambulance arrived, and they carted me off to the hospital immediately since it looked likely I had suffered some serious brain damage." I slumped in my seat, squeezing my eyes shut and trying not to do something embarrassing like cry. John cleared his throat.

"So you just…pretended you hadn't been driving?" he asked, eyeing me carefully. "Like that? You didn't panic or anything?"

"I felt absolutely terrible, of course," I said defensively, latching on to the flicker of annoyance desperately. Anger, no matter how misplaced, was easier to deal with than guilt. "And afterwards I just couldn't function. I always knew it would get out and I was absolutely terrified. And guilty, of course, but I wasn't about to go confessing unless I absolutely had to. The sentence for LSD possession alone can go up to forty-five years, never mind driving under influence and manslaughter or whatever it is you call it. At the time I was purely in self-preservation mode. Panicking wouldn't have done anything. Never mind that no one thought I had a reason to beyond grief. Most people assumed that I was just the innocent girlfriend and didn't think to look deeper. I'd kept my drug involvement tightly under wraps up until that point. Acid doesn't do much to you physically."

"Fight or flight," Sherlock murmured, rising to his feet so he could tower over me. "You went with fight initially. Relied on logic to pull you through. And the flight kicked in later, which is how you ended up here. But now it's all crashing down around you, in spite of your efforts."

Truer words were never spoken. I peered up at him, not even trying to conceal my sheer desperation. His expression was completely indecipherable.

"Yeah," I agreed softly. "It's quite unfair, really. The last time I checked 12.1% of adults between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five have experimented with acid at one point in their lives in the States. I just got exceptionally unlucky, especially since I was trying to do what was safest at the time."

"You've done your research," remarked Sherlock, one eyebrow quirked.

"In most circumstances, knowledge is power," I retorted, remembering the countless hours I'd spent researching LSD stats, reassuring myself that it was less harmful than practically any other drug with the exception of pot, and endlessly preaching my innocence to an invisible jury. "It's not doing me much good now though. So what happens from here? Do I actually have to go to prison to free the hostage? Is this the part where I plead and cry and you snap on the handcuffs anyway because you're an asshole?"

"It's a test," Sherlock mused, pacing in front of the bulletin. I rolled my eyes in an attempt to stay strong, fighting helplessly against the onslaught of delayed panic. My fate was in the hands of a serial killer and a sociopath. I was royally skewed. "He's gaging my reaction. Wants to see if I'm going to play by the rules. No pleading or crying necessary," he added quickly to me, smirking slightly.

"That's good," I said honestly, "I don't feel like crying anyway."

"Why not?" John said curiously. "If I were you, I'd certainly want to cry." I was surprised, for a moment, that he was remaining so calm in the face of all of this. But then again, he'd been in the military and put up with Sherlock 24/7. Nerves of steel were a given.

"I feel like screaming," I said, unable to keep my voice from wavering. "Or punching someone. Or sleeping for a decade. All of which I'll probably do before they cart me off. Oh God, oh _God, _I hope that poor girl is alright."

"She'll make it, it'll be fine," said John soothingly and _why _was he comforting me after everything I just told him?

"Do you absolutely hate me?" I asked, fearing his reaction but needing to know the answer all the same.

"I'm not happy," John informed me frankly, "But you're doing the right thing now by trying to help the girl. We all make mistakes. People in my family have made…uh, bad choices. I know what it's like. But sometimes you just have to live and let live, you know?"

"Oh, shut up, both of you just _shut up!_" Sherlock barked, tearing at his mop of curls. "What does he _want_? Do I play fair or just…" he stopped, eyes suddenly wide with some imminent epiphany. "Of course. He doesn't want me to go to the police at all. This isn't about following rules, it's about the _game_. He's making her a player_._"

I stared at him bemusedly, unsure what exactly was happening but it didn't seem like Sherlock was on the brink of phoning Detective Inspector Lestrade to have me carted away. I kept silent, waiting. And then the phone rang. Sherlock picked up immediately.

"It's always…good to keep investments…Sherlock. Consider this a…poke in the r-right…direction. C-come and find me… if you can, please, _please, please!_" The girl's voice dissolved into an indistinguishable mess of sobs and curses. Tears burned thickly down my own cheeks, and I rested my head between my legs so I wouldn't have to see the room blur in sheer relief. John let out a tired laugh.

"I'll phone Lestrade," he announced, tromping off to the kitchen to make the call. I sniffled heavily, stifling my anguish before I could be verbally mauled. Sherlock was still standing at the bulletin, his back towards me.

"Thank you," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "He probably would've released her if you had turned me in, y'know. The message never specified what I was supposed to do after I told you."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "I'm keeping an investment, like he recommended. You'll owe me a favor now. Could come in useful."

"Please," I scoffed, "Why would you need a favor from me?"

"Don't know," said Sherlock absently, "But even I don't have the ability to predict the future. The bomber clearly wants you to be a part of his little game, in any case. And…" He paused here, looking at me intently, "221c is mildly less boring with you in it."

I gaped at him. Honestly, was Sherlock really going to look upon me favorably now that he knew I'd inadvertently killed my boyfriend? Typical.

"You know," I said carefully, testing the waters of this newfound congeniality with no small amount of apprehension, "That might be the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."

Sherlock scowled. "Mildly being the operative term."

"Mmm, I won't take it to heart then," I replied with a relieved grin, knowing that somehow I had managed to successfully edge myself a bit further into his and John's little world. My confidence was reinforced when John came back into the living room, frowning a bit but certainly nowhere near homicidal. He had heard of far worse than drugged driving, and when Sherlock trotted off to the kitchen to start up another ungodly experiment, he turned to me.

"I'm actually not surprised Sherlock's letting this go," he said mildly.

"He doesn't set much store for rules, huh?"

"Well, that too. But I was thinking more about him doing the same for me when I met him."

I must have looked confused as hell, because John just shot me an infuriatingly cryptic smile and went to check up on his mad flatmate. I retreated back to my flat tiredly, wondering which one was crazier.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson came over for tea later, completely oblivious to the drama that had gone down just hours earlier. She was just as cheerful as ever, chattering on about Sherlock as per usual.

"He left ten minutes after John. Something to do with train tracks and that brother of his. A piece of work, both of them, but Mycroft has none of Sherlock's softness," she informed me. I shook my head and hoped I would never have the misfortune of meeting Sherlock's brother.

"Softness?" I scoffed, wondering if there was an adjective less applicable to Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson gave me one of those knowing smiles of hers in response.

"Yes, he does rub people up the wrong way, but when he thinks no one's watching he can be quite sweet."

"Well, _I _certainly haven't seen that side of him," I muttered, the tinge of resentment in my voice impossible to conceal. And her damn little smirk certainly wasn't helping.

"You seem a bit wired," she observed, "Though I suppose it's a bit of a trying time for all of us. I don't know half of it, of course. The boys seem determined to keep me as out of the loop as possible. I understand, but it can get a bit frustrating."

"That's the truth," I murmured, though looking back, I actually knew quite a bit about the case. I had been present for Carl Powers, I had worked out what had happened to the Connie Prince hostage more or less on my own, and I had been the fifth pip, of course. Sherlock and John were probably working on the sixth at that very moment. The grand finale. I sipped my tea contemplatively, startling a bit when the hinges of the door squeaked and footsteps clattered on the stairs.

"Oh, they're home!" chirped Mrs. Hudson happily, clamoring to her feet. "I'll bring up some biscuits. Sherlock always forgets to eat when he's working, bless him, and John's not much better. I'm not their housekeeper, of course, and Sherlock always forgets, but I can't let him _starve._"

"I'll bring them up for you," I offered casually. "I don't have anything better to do."

Mrs. Hudson obviously saw through my weak attempt to mask that I really just wanted an excuse to find out more about the case if her grin was anything to go by. But she understood, and she sent me upstairs with Sherlock's favorite chocolate biscuits with raspberry filling, and some of the peanut butter ones John was partial to, too. I opened the door without knocking, shivering a bit at the still, cold evening sweeping in through the wrecked windows.

"I come in peace," I said quickly before Sherlock could protest my unprecedented arrival. He was jackknifed in his chair, still wrapped in his stupidly dramatic coat and watching some shitty T.V. program. "With cookies, actually." I set the tray on the coffee table, wrapping my arms around me for warmth. "Did you solve it then?"

"Mm?" Sherlock asked, not even bothering to look at me. I suppressed an eye-roll.

"You said there were six pips. I was the fifth. Were you just out solving the sixth?"

"Yes," said Sherlock shortly.

"And you aren't going to tell me more about it, huh?"

"No."

"Okay," I sighed, preparing to make my departure. Still unwanted, then. John spoke up before I could leave, peering at me curiously from the desk.

"You're very unfazed," he remarked, eyes narrowed. "We were talking to a gallery attendant—Mrs. Wenceslas—about a fake painting she arranged to have passed off as a Vermeer earlier this morning before we got the call from your…hostage. She was on the verge of a panic attack by the end of it." So that was the problem. I wasn't showing enough emotion considering the circumstances. I asked for clarification anyway.

"And you're wondering why I'm not?"

"Sort of, yeah," John said, smiling the fakest smile I'd ever seen (including quite a few from a manipulative Sherlock). His eyes remained icy enough to make me squirm.

"It was two years ago," I said shortly. "I've never really gotten over it, but I've moved on. Believe me, I had a lot of problems after it happened. And yeah, I'm pretty unhappy some psycho managed to dig it all up just when I was starting to get back on my feet, but what the hell can I do? You aren't going to try and bust me for it, so why freak out? Panicking would be a waste of energy. I'll save it for when I need it. I'm sure I will sooner or later, with everything that happens around you two. And anyway, I'm not going to cry in front of you guys anyway. I barely know you." I didn't mention that Sherlock's being about the least comforting person on the planet was the main factor in my own emotional detachment. It didn't need to be said. He glanced in my direction though, just as inscrutable as ever. I avoided looking at him. John didn't say anything, but his eyes softened visibly. I fidgeted, waiting. He didn't speak up, so I broke the silence myself.

"Should I leave?"

"You can stay if you want," John said mildly, turning his attention back to his computer. "Right, Sherlock?"

"Mmm," was the only response I got. Well, someone was in a talkative mood. Without bothering to ask for permission, I perched myself on the armrest of his chair, carefully avoiding all contact and keeping my eyes on the T.V. Sherlock's hand twitched and he inhaled deeply, but he didn't move or say anything. I considered it a small victory.

"What are you watching anyway?" I asked, finally looking at Sherlock. He grunted, seemed to realize that I wouldn't go away, and answered grudgingly.

"Jeremy Springer."

"Oh." An awkward pause. "I didn't take you to be the type."

"Neither did I," Sherlock replied, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. John watched us carefully, as though caught in a mental debate about whether or not he should comment. Sherlock spoke up before he could, displaying more passion than I had ever seen him show. "No, no, _NO! _Of _course _he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"

"Look at his eyelashes," I added. Sherlock snorted. "No, seriously. He's either had them dyed—If that's even possible—Or he's wearing mascara. Either way, it's pretty gay." Sherlock actually chuckled. I grinned too, wondering if we were actually sharing a moment. I wasn't sure if the thought was terrifying or elating.

"Knew it was dangerous getting you into crap telly," John muttered, doing a right poor job at concealing his amusement.

"Hmm, not a patch on Connie Prince," said Sherlock. And then John was talking about Mycroft and a memory stick, Sherlock was going on about a knighthood, and I was hopelessly out of the loop yet just as soon as I'd started to feel included. Finally, John closed his laptop and stood, stretching widely.

"Right. I won't be in for tea. I'm going to Sarah's. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge," he announced, grabbing his jacket.

"Mm."

"Uh, milk," John added. "We need milk."

"I'll get some," Sherlock said absently. I quirked a dubious eyebrow. He didn't seem like the type to do boring chores like shopping. John shared my incredulity.

"Really?"

"Really," said Sherlock, not sounding reassuring in the least.

"And some beans?" asked John hopefully.

"Mmm." And then John was gone and Sherlock was on his laptop, typing away furiously. I nobly resisted the temptation to peer over his shoulder (it would have been ridiculously easy, but he would've noticed in a second), and slid off the armrest instead, giving him his space.

"You're not going to get the beans and milk, are you?"

"John can live without," Sherlock replied absently, still focused on his computer.

"Do you want me to get them?" I offered, thinking he would leap at the opportunity to get me out of his magnificent hair. Instead, he eyed me suspiciously.

"Why would you do that?" he finally asked. I shrugged uncomfortably.

"A…favor? Between friends? I owe you one anyway. I don't mind. I have to get some shopping for myself." There was that curious look again. The one that meant I had surprised him.

"Friends?" he finally said, testing the word out on his tongue as though it were entirely foreign to him.

"Yeah, friends," I repeated. "You and John are friends. I'm a friend. Friends get the milk." No response. "I'll just go then. You're welcome."

I left before he could protest my coining myself as something more than a necessary acquaintance. Well, he hadn't seemed entirely hostile to the suggestion of a friend. It wasn't like he'd thrown up or had an immediate panic attack. I could consider that progress. And the walk to Tesco wasn't that long. I picked up the milk and beans as promised, breathing a sigh of relief when I saw that the overzealous cashier wasn't at any of the registers. On my way back to Baker Street, I was stopped by black-cashmere clad woman with the sort of sleek shoulder-length hair I dreamed of possessing if I ever scrounged up the courage to cut mine. I frowned at her, unsure why she was smirking at me.

"Julia Fields?" she inquired, arching one immaculately groomed eyebrow. I nodded, squinting suspiciously. "Need a ride?" And a sleek black car that probably cost more than two years of rent and my entire wardrobe pulled up. Cashmere (as I had christened her) opened the door and I stood, dumbfounded that she actually expected me to climb into a mysterious vehicle without any sort of explanation.

"My mother taught me not to get into cars with strangers," I retorted quickly, earning another smirk.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice," Cashmere replied smoothly. I contemplated the car—the tinted windows could have been hiding _anything_—and suddenly remembered John's talk of being abducted when we were working on Carl Powers. Is _this _what he was on about? Oh God, I was being abducted by Sherlock's brother. I got in the car without further protest and sat stiffly, knees trembling. Thankfully, there weren't any dead bodies in the back seat—Just freshly-softened leather. Cashmere settled in next to me, withdrawing a blackberry (honestly, who even used those anymore?) and completely ignoring my presence in favor of typing away mysteriously on the damned thing. I crossed my arms sullenly, unhappy about being ignored after being so cooperative. I considered refusing to leave the car when we finally pulled up to a horror-movie perfect abandoned warehouse, decided that anyone who chose such a warehouse to carry out an abduction was not to be fucked with, and got out reluctantly. Cashmere sauntered ahead, opening the peeling door with an ominous creak. I peered into the darkness, unable to make out anything.

"Go on," she said pointedly. I scowled at her, half-expecting to be attacked by Leatherface the second I stepped inside. Mutilation by a chainsaw-wielding maniac was just what I needed to seal the cap on my enormously shitty day. Thankfully, no such assault came when I finally worked up the courage to edge in. The dusk filtering in through one small window had stained the walls a deep blue, and I had to squint to make out the shadowy figure standing in the back.

"Good evening, Miss Julia Fields," said Mr. Shadow in a voice so saturated with smugness it left me reeling with an automatic desire to punch him. I nobly restrained said desire, as tromping around hitting strangers usually lead to trouble.

"Am I about to be murdered?" I asked, trying to sound as bold and un-killable as possible. "Although, I suppose your brother would like that." Mr. Shadow let out a forced chuckle.

"And just how would you know my brother?" he asked. The lights flickered on. Mycroft Holmes, as it turned out, was just as intimidating as Sherlock in a fatter, Mary-Poppins sort of way, and his face bore an uncanny resemblance to an ostrich that was a bit terrifying. I certainly didn't want to be skewered on the end of that umbrella, and I plastered on a winsome smile in the hopes of charming him into not executing whatever terrible thing he'd planned.

"I live downstairs from him," I said, adding after a moment's hesitation, "Mycroft."

"I know," Mycroft said, smiling beadily. "I see Sherlock's deigned to mention me in the presence of a stranger. How compassionate of him."

"Not a stranger," I protested, "And I hate to be the one to tell you this, but he wasn't exactly singing your praises. Neither was John." Mycroft, if anything, seemed _cheered _by this news.

"Naturally," he agreed. He considered me for a moment, eyes penetrating enough to leave me wishing I had washed my hair or brushed my teeth before leaving. "If you aren't a stranger, perhaps you know enough about him to inform me of his day-to-day doings. A little friendly check-up, if you will."

"Why would I do that?" I asked honestly, a bit taken aback by the sudden leap from, _ahem, _friendly introductions to mystery missions.

"Because you are not independently wealthy, and I would be willing to offer you generous compensation for your trouble," Mycroft said, eyes glittering. "And, of course, because I am in possession of delicate information regarding the death of Alex Welton that could lead to your imprisonment, or at the very least a time-consuming trial. You'll find I am much less sympathetic than my brother, nor am I as likely to be charmed by a pretty face." I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not, but there were certainly quite a few adjectives that came to mind before "sympathetic" in regards to Sherlock. And I didn't want to think about how inaccurate the last part of his statement was.

"I don't think he could be any less charmed," I said, a bit sad at the simple truth of it. Though I suppose if he had been charmed, I probably would've already lost interest. It was the coldness that kept me desperate to win his approval.

"I think you'll find that untrue," said Mycroft. "Sherlock Holmes is not a tolerant man. He is perfectly capable of scaring off any neighbors that do not meet his strict requirements in a matter of minutes. And yet you still live below him. What may we deduce about his feelings towards you?"

"That he's too busy to find the time to get rid of me," I shrugged. "Look, I don't know what you're implying, but there is absolutely _nothing _going on between Sherlock and me."

"I believe you," said Mycroft agreeably. "But he is comfortable enough around you to allow you to assist on his cases. You are in a better position than most to offer information on his whereabouts and daily doings."

"And you're blackmailing me to get that information," I summarized shortly, wondering what could have happened to fuck these two up so badly. "Good to know chivalry isn't dead."

"You're looking in the wrong place if you wish to find chivalry," Mycroft replied absently, checking his watch.

"Then I guess it's a good thing that's not what I want," I sighed, wishing I could just get the hell out of there. "If you already know that I've helped your brother on his cases, then why do you need me as a spy? It sounds like you're already pretty involved in his life."

"An outside opinion is always useful," said Mycroft. "Besides, I cannot devote my entire life to looking after Sherlock, fascinating though he may be. I have other duties of greater significance."

"Jesus Christ, who beat the humanity out of you two?" I huffed, more to myself than Mycroft. It was truly horrifying just how willing the Holmes brothers were to pry into others' private lives, whether wanted or not. "Well, refusal clearly isn't really an option for me. If I agree, will you leave me alone?"

"If your performance is up to standard," said Mycroft, "In any case, I hope you won't mind if I drop by at some point to brief you on your duties?"

"I'll mind. But I don't really have the choice," I said warily, finding the word "duties" extremely ominous. "Not that you care, but I find this whole spying business extremely fucked up. Normal siblings don't do this shit to each other. Can't you just, I dunno, call Sherlock up for a tea and chat?"

"You live below him. How receptive do you think he'd be to such a pointless social nicety?" Mycroft sniffed disdainfully, and I had to concur. He was reluctant to make small talk with even harmless Mrs. Hudson after all, never mind this pompous puppet master. "I suppose you may leave. Anthea will take you back to Baker Street, unless you need to make any other stops?"

"Back to Baker Street is fine by me," I said, thoroughly exhausted by these Holmeses and their dramatics. "Anthea" appeared by my side, still focused on that damn blackberry. I followed her dutifully out of the warehouse, resisting the urge to flip off Mycroft before retreating back to the safety of the car. Anthea directed the driver to take me home, and I spent the ride sulking determinedly. After being firmly booted from the car, I took a moment to breathe deeply, heal a bit from the shock of the day, and people-watch before heading back up to the fray that was Sherlock. There was a young couple sitting outside of Speedy's sharing a coffee and gazing deeply into each other's eyes, an older man across the street sweeping the sidewalk in front of the dilapidated flats, and a muscular blonde guy struggling to haul a large box up the steps to his flat. I watched him for a minute, wincing when I noticed the veins popping desperately from his biceps. When he dropped the box on his foot and cursed loudly, I called out to him.

"You need some help with that?" The man stared at me blankly for a moment, wiping the sheen of sweat from his broad features. A slow smile of relief spread across his face, and I grinned back at the familiar little rush that always came with doing something nice.

"If you don't mind, ma'am. I can't lift it on me own but if you take one side we might be able to get it."

"Sure," I said, approaching him carefully. "Is this your flat?"

"Yep," said the man, flexing his arms impressively. "Just moved in this week. This is the last of the boxes."

"Ah." That…was perplexing. I hadn't noticed a moving van outside that week. Then again, I had been a bit preoccupied lately. I contemplated the box carefully, finally bending over to seize the end closest to the door. The man followed suit, but I still grunted with the exertion. "Jesus, what do you have in here? Weapons?"

"Summat like that," the man joked. "Just step back and the door'll push open. I can't thank you enough for doing this, ma'am. Always nice to meet decent folk."

"Oh sure, it's no problem," I panted, following his instructions and stepping back. The door creaked open, and I felt a brief surge of apprehension at backing blindly into a stranger's home. But no one attacked me, and I edged in, dropping the box on the linoleum with a clang of metal on metal. Kitchenware, perhaps? Still breathing heavily, I looked around the room before resting my gaze longingly on the threadbare couch. It didn't look like he'd just moved in. I could see no other boxes, and the sofa was the only piece of furniture in sight.

"You look nearly done in," the man observed. I shrugged heavily, wishing I could plop down on the sofa and never get up. My legs were feeling noodle-y.

"I'm not really built for heavy lifting," I said dismissively. The man frowned in sympathy.

"Sit down, please. 'S the least I can do after you helped me so nicely. I can make you a drink, if you like?"

"O-oh." Perhaps if I hadn't just slogged through one of the single most trying days of my life, I would have listened to the little niggling Sherlockian voice in my head telling me not to accept drinks from strangers. But I was emotionally and physically exhausted, and all I said in response was, "Thank you. That's very kind of you. Tea would be lovely, if it isn't too much of a bother."

"Not at all," said the man, heading into what I assumed was the kitchen. "'M afraid I only have Lipton instant. 'S that all right with you, love?"

"Lipton's fine," I said quickly, collapsing on the couch. "I just realized I don't know your name."

"Sebastian. Me friends call me Seb."

"I'm Julia," I said, stretching my legs out and yawning widely. "Julia Fields."

"I know." My head snapped towards the kitchen, overcome once again with the feeling something wasn't right. The instinct passed the second it appeared, and I chalked it up to Mrs. Hudson being over-friendly with the new neighbor. Sebastian bustled in with one cup of tea a moment later, and if it struck me as odd that he hadn't made any for himself, the doubt was quickly overcome by the prospect of soothing my throat with something cold and sweet. I accepted the cup gratefully, and even though it seemed a bit too powdery for Lipton, it still tasted like heaven to me. The whole of the cup was downed quickly, and when I was finished I leaned back into the couch, ignoring a sudden turning in my stomach.

"Now what?" I said, pressing a hand against the clamminess beading my brow. Sebastian regarded me carefully, eyes glinting keenly in the low light. My head turned as suddenly as my stomach, and I fought the resultant wave of nausea with all my might, desperate not to throw up on this poor man's floor. "Do you need anything else or…" I couldn't finish the sentence. The turning made my vision flicker ominously, and an involuntary gasp of pain escaped my mouth before I could help it.

"Now, you take a little nap," Sebastian said with precise flatness. I peered up at him in panicked confusion, summoning the last of my strength to mumble a single "huh?" The nausea and dizziness won. I drew one last shuddering breath, eyelids fluttering shut against my will. I was spared one last second of black consciousness before the world dissolved altogether.

* * *

**A/N: Look, being a nice person is great and all, but don't go into strangers' homes, and don't accept drinks from random men, okay? Listen to the Inner-Sherlock! Well, that was pretty damn action-packed, and the conclusion of TGG is finally on the horizon! This whole thing turned out rather longer than I expected (a whopping 8.2K) but I'm rather pleased with the final result, and hopefully it was worth it for all of you. I'm terribly excited to get to the new, unexplored territory of the original and briefly mentioned cases, and hopefully you guys are too! That last scene was based on that deliciously terrifying moment in The Silence of the Lambs where Buffalo Bill lures poor Catherine into his van under the guise of a stranger in need of help. If you haven't watched the movie yet and love horror, it's definitely a must-see. And the "Now, you take a little nap" line is directly taken from the infamous My Little Pony gore-fest "Cupcakes" written by Sergeant Sprinkles. Wouldn't recommend it unless you have a stomach of steel. **

**And now, lovely readers, it's your turn to tell me what you think! I can't stress enough how important it is for me to know that people are enjoying (or not enjoying, to be fair) this story, so if you have any comments, suggestions, criticisms, praise, things you liked, things you hated, just **_**let me know! **_**Every single review I get makes a huge difference. **


	6. Insurance

**A/N: I know it's been a month. I'm deeply apologetic, but hopefully you guys can forgive me. These updates are taking me longer. Sorry, but hopefully the quality will make up for it. I'm thrilled as always with the support from you lovely readers, with big thanks to Lothelen, ZerohSmiles, Gwilwillith (Cool username btw), elbafo (Give both her stories a look. It's seriously worth it), Anna, EmmaB, rycbar15, Shae, Regin and both guests. Before I get going with the chapter, I absolutely have to rec the most hilarious, sad, poignant, sexy and all-round glorious Sherlock fanfic ever written: **_**What to do When Your Flatmate is Homicidal **_**by hyacinth_sky747**_**. **_**It's Johnlock of the most fabulous, side-splitting variety, so if you're into slash check it out on AO3 if you want a good hearty laugh. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own anything except Julia and any changes she induces in the plot. **

**Chapter 6: Insurance**

The first thing I registered when I awoke was a strong chemical smell. Something wet had seeped through my clothes, and the surface I was lying on was distinctly slimy. Opening my eyes seemed like a Herculean effort, so I contented myself with taking deep breaths, attempting to chase away the sore fuzziness fringing around my stream of consciousness. It took me a moment to recall what had happened before I blacked out, but the second I remembered the blonde man and the mystery substance he'd slipped into my tea, I began to panic, trying to remember the names of common date rape drugs and their effects on the human body. Oh God, was he still here? I couldn't even open my eyes. He could do whatever he wanted to me and I wouldn't be able to do anything but lie there like roadkill. The second this very real fear materialized, a door slammed open, colliding with the wall in a resultant crash that was too much for my poor drugged ears to handle. I moaned in pain.

"Rise and shine sweetheart," an Irish-accented voice crooned from the doorway. "The party's gonna start soon. We wouldn't want to miss out on the fun, hmm?"

I opened my eyes, wincing at the dim bars of light flickering hazily above me. A stray black spot danced across my line of vision, doing absolutely nothing to blot out the smirking face hovering over my prone body. I squinted. I was in a small, damp room with cleaning supplies shoved hastily in the corner and a muggy yellow window set in the door that showed absolutely nothing of the outside surroundings. Storage closet, then. I turned my focus on the looming face. Slick black hair, blacker eyes, and a sort of cuteness to his features that contrasted horribly with the ill intent in his leer. There was something familiar about him. He stepped forward and I cowered back instinctively, heart thrumming.

"Don't touch me!" He laughed, the sound echoing uncomfortably through the tiny room.

"Don't worry. Not really my style." He considered me for a beat and I returned the favor, struggling to place his face. I gasped when the realization hit, and the cruel laughter commenced. "Are the wheels finally turning?" he asked, looking positively delighted. I nodded mutely, unable to believe that sweet, bumbling, coffee spilling _Jim _had abducted me. All I could think of was my stained dress.

"You ruined my favorite dress," I said accusingly, "I only let you get away with it because I thought you were nice."

"That's your big mistake, love," 'Jim' replied, "You assume the best in people. You'd be safe at home right now if you learned to be cynical like the rest of us."

"I'm plenty cynical," I spat, furious with myself because he was completely _right_. Do a nice thing and look what happens: Drugged, lost, and captured by a psycho. "Who are you anyway? What do you want from me?"

"James Moriarty," 'Jim' introduced. He extended a hand. I stared at it in utter disgust. "I'd say it's a pleasure but it really isn't. We need to get you all prettied up. Sherlock should be here soon."

Did every single damn thing have to be about Sherlock? Wait…Moriarty? Those texts had been labeled "M". Oh my God, this Jim Moriarty was the bomber. I'd been drugged and captured by a man who had no qualms about blowing innocent people sky high. My stomach plummeted to my knees and I scuttled back, shoving myself against the slick wall. My legs had turned to marshmallow and there was absolutely nowhere to run anyway. Moriarty was blocking the only door. He had clearly seen the epiphany in my eyes, and his cat that got the cream grin was sickening.

"What do you want from me?" I repeated, voice cracking painfully. "I thought you were after Sherlock."

"Yes, of course," said Moriarty serenely, "But _someone _has to ensure his cooperation. He can be a bit ornery, after all. And I don't do anything halfway, doll face. Now, it's time to get Cinderella ready for the ball. Go ahead and strip. We can't have Sherlock's little squeeze looking like a blind Sunday school teacher."

"_What?" _I choked, completely unable to comprehend what he'd just ordered. Moriarty rolled his eyes.

"Strip. Now. Oh, don't worry," he said, grinning widely when my face drained of color, "No one will be laying a hand on you. I've found that exposure can be a very powerful thing indeed. It works both ways, you know, and we're going to make Sherl just as uncomfortable as you'll be shortly." I still didn't move. I didn't want to show a single inch of skin to this freak, whether he was planning to touch me or not. Moriarty sighed. "Must everyone be so difficult? Look sweetheart, either you strip, or I get dear Sebby to decorate that wall with your pretty little head, hmm? So it may be in your best interest to make an effort _now_."

The last word was hissed with such malice, I was shocked into compliance. I stood shakily, knees nearly giving out, and briefly considered asking Moriarty to leave while I undressed. I doubted he would do anything I asked, and unbuttoned my blouse clumsily, wincing at the eruption of goose bumps triggered by the clammy air. As Moriarty watched me carefully, I was struck with the sudden memory of Sherlock's clinical gaze when he first laid eyes on me. There was nothing sexual in the least about the look he was giving me. He simply wanted to see me humiliated. When my skirt fell around my feet and I stepped out of my shoes, he stopped me, stepping forward and smirking in pleasure at my shameful blush.

"There, that wasn't so hard," he said. "You can keep the underwear. We don't want to traumatize poor Sherlock for life. SEB!" he hollered, and my abductor slunk into the room, a heavy military-green coat slung over his arm. Sebastian didn't pay a second's heed to my nudity. I wondered why I hadn't taken notice of the deadness in his eyes before. The coat was shoved at me. It was heavier than I expected, and unfolding it revealed that someone had lined it with enough semtex to blow up half the street. Icy horror knotted my stomach.

"And here's the ball gown!" Moriarty announced gleefully. "Go on, get dressed. I thought girls loved getting new clothes?"

I sent him a look of unbridled loathing and threw the vile thing over my head. Jim's eyes glittered.

"Green suits you," he informed me. "I'm sure Sherlock will be _delighted _to see you."

Pfft, as if. Sherlock didn't give a damn about me and probably never would, even if by some small chance I managed to make it out of this whole fucked up situation alive. My scowl deepened.

"Oh dear, that won't do at all," Moriarty frowned. "Smile. It'll brighten up your whole face."

I smiled, not at the cold-blooded killer in front of me, but at blundering yet well-meaning Jim from IT. It actually felt sincere. I summoned the courage to ask a question, keeping my voice free of malice. I had no delusions that it would make a difference in my fate, but being a good person had to stand for something, and I'd show Moriarty that I was above his cruelty. Even if it was the last thing I ever did.

"Where are we?"

"Why, the death place of little Carl Powers!" Moriarty chirped. "Lovely spot for a confrontation, dontcha think?"

"Why are you using me as bait?"

"_Bait_?" he repeated, incredulous delight glinting in those impossibly black eyes. "Oh honey, don't flatter yourself. Johnny-Boy's the bait. You're just the insurance. And not even the first choice. We tried to get the house keeper, but she doesn't go out much."

"She is his _landlady_," I hissed furiously, all too aware of my terrible circumstances and desperate to direct my rage at something. I was in my underwear, covered in semtex, and staring into the eyes of the same psycho who'd exposed my darkest secret to two of the only three people I cared about in the whole city. I was incensed at the insult to the third. And then I took notice of how he'd described me: Insurance. Sherlock had used the same word not a week ago. It was more painful to hear than any curse would've been. I breathed deeply, attempted to wrap up my emotions and shove them under the jacket where Moriarty couldn't see them.

"Hey now, don't get your knickers in a twist," said Moriarty, holding up his hands. "They're all you have at the moment."

"What happens now? What are you planning?" I demanded before forcing my face to relax again. Smiling now seemed too much of an effort, but I could still stop him from seeing how his words were affecting me.

"So many questions," Moriarty tsk'd, shaking his head disappointedly. "Curiosity killed the cat, m'dear. Well, I may not need your help at all. But in case Sherlock does need a little extra incentive to cooperate, I'll call you. In the mean time, feel free to make yourself comfortable. You could be here for quite a while." I instinctively twitched in the direction of the door. Moriarty's eyes flashed dangerously. "Ah-ah-ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you. You can stay where you are, or…" He leered in triumph, pointedly staring at the bulging jacket. I winced in cold panic as the sheer amount of explosives making contact with my exposed skin finally sunk in. "Or the party starts a bit ahead of schedule."

A bit ahead of schedule. Did that mean he was planning to blow me up no matter what? I pushed the thought away firmly, well aware that succumbing to the terror Moriarty wanted me to feel was the least helpful thing I could do. It was hard. But it helped telling myself that if these _were _my last minutes alive, I didn't want to spend them cowering.

"What do you need Sherlock to cooperate with?" I said carefully, doubtful Moriarty would elaborate on what he'd planned, but hopeful just the same. My prediction proved accurate.

"That's no concern of yours. Not for the moment, at least," said Moriarty, checking his expensive watch. "Well, I'd better get going. Wouldn't want to be late for my date. Lovely chatting with you."

He swept out the door, letting it slam behind him. I sank to the floor again, huddling next to a mop bucket and attempting to control my trembling. The effort was futile. I closed my eyes, pressed my forehead against the chilled wall and strained my ears instead, hoping to hear some of the confrontation Moriarty had planned. I found it impossible yet again. Nothing but a faint dripping could be heard. Either the doors were soundproof, or Moriarty was being sneaky about his "date". My breathing slowed as the minutes ticked on painfully. And then:

"That's what people _DO!" _I shuddered and burrowed deeper into the coat. Moriarty's voice then was the single most horrifying thing I'd heard in my life. It seemed, based on the anger in the last word, that Sherlock wasn't being cooperative. I was unsurprised, and almost…proud. Of course Sherlock could make even someone as cold as Moriarty lose control.

"I see we're going to need a bit of extra encouragement," Moriarty said, calm again. His voice was dangerously close to the storage closet. "_Juuuuuu-lia_," he sang liltingly, teasingly. "_Seashell eyes, windy smiles." _I twitched. Even knowing the repercussions of not following his orders, I was unable to move. The door swung open, and Moriarty's sharply clad silhouette loomed over me. I shied away from him, hiding desperately behind my bucket.

"Come on, Jules. No need to be _shy_," he snarled, lurching forward. Before I could react, he grabbed my shoulder, pulling me to my feet. I gasped in pain, knowing my arm would show a nasty bruise the next day if I lived to see it. At that point, the possibility seemed unlikely. Moriarty yanked me violently out of the closet. I stumbled, head swimming at the unexpectedly bright light and not even noticing Sherlock and John until I had taken in the rest of my surroundings. The chemical smell, as it turned out, had been chlorine from the public pool. I recalled Moriarty mentioning this being the place of Carl Power's death, and remembered that the poor kid had drowned in a pool. The same one I was facing now. For a split second, I thought I could see a small figure writhing in agony just below the surface of the water. The hallucination shimmered away the second it appeared, and I focused instead on Sherlock, whose pale eyes were more agitated than I had ever seen them. He had a gun trained on Moriarty, but I noticed a twitch in his thumb that could only mean he was more nervous than he was letting on. John stood with his back towards me, still as a statue and bundled in a heavy jacket that could only be covering more explosives.

"Here she is!" Moriarty exclaimed gleefully. "Come on Jules, you can talk. Same goes to you, Johnny-Boy." John stayed silent. I followed his lead, keeping my face a stony mask. Moriarty huffed in frustration. "So stubborn," he murmured. "So _stupid. _Can't compliment you on your taste m'afraid, Sherlock." His hand tightened over my shoulder, a fingernail scraping the exposed skin of my neck roughly enough to draw blood. I couldn't quite conceal the pained twist of my mouth. Sherlock's jaw tightened. He glanced at John, some nonverbal communication passing between them. His hand twitched to his pocket, withdrawing a flash-drive.

"Take it," he snapped. Moriarty strolled forward and accepted it, eyes glinting. My brain was whirling away a mile a minute. Was this what Moriarty had been on about when he was talking about Sherlock's "cooperation"? Was this what he was after? I sure as hell hoped so. Maybe he'd let us leave unscathed. It was foolishly optimistic of me, but really, what else could I do in such a fucked up situation?

"Ah, the missile plans," Moriarty announced. He brought the stick to his lips, giving it a chaste kiss. "Boo-ring. Could have gotten those anywhere." His hand flashed in the direction of the pool, resulting in a small splash. John acted in a second. He threw his arms around Moriarty, one hand grasped at his expensive lapel. I stayed statue-still, unable to comprehend what he was trying to accomplish. My brain, in its panicked state, had shut down to the point where only one purpose registered: Stay silent, don't move, don't make eye contact. I wanted to disappear, and the closest thing to that was making myself as inconspicuous as possible.

"_Good! _Very good," Moriarty cried gleefully, far from perturbed that John had just enveloped him in what was essentially a hug.

"If your sniper pulls the trigger, Mr. Moriarty, we both blow up," John spat savagely. In the absurdity of the situation, the only thing I could do was suppress a supremely inappropriate snigger that John was _still _polite. Mr. Moriarty, indeed.

"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you keep him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets," Moriarty sang. His eyes darted to me. "And of course, we all know just how useful _you _are, love."

Sherlock made a faint noise of displeasure, and my own eyes flashed. I wasn't sure what was worse: That Moriarty thought the only reason Sherlock kept me around was for sex, or that I couldn't think of the true reason myself. He clearly picked up on this, grinning in delighted incredulity.

"Oh, really? And here I was thinking virgin was just an affectionate nickname. Silly, silly me. Can't say I understand why you haven't given this one the boot in that case, Sherlock. She isn't the brightest bulb in the socket. Getting my hands on her was hardly a challenge. She wandered right into my sniper's set up completely of her own free will."

I spoke up before I could stop myself.

"Because you took advantage of me being a decent person. They do exist, you know. But you wouldn't understand that." It wasn't all that biting, but under the circumstances, I couldn't think of a better retort. I certainly wasn't going to touch the virgin comment with a ten-foot pole.

"Nice people finish last, sweetie. And you aren't a saint by any means," Moriarty retorted. "Fortunately for you, I can appreciate naughty behavior, and it seems these two agree. Your parents, on the other hand, might not be so forgiving. Murder is a bit much for ordinary people to swallow."

"Fuck. You." I hissed, horrified at the threat. My parents absolutely could not find out what I'd done, no matter how long ago it had been. They'd whisk me straight out of London and straight into a jail cell. Blood on my hands was one bad behavior they wouldn't tolerate. Moriarty laughed at my unimaginative curse.

"I'd love to oblige, but as I said…" He gestured to me, from my pale legs and face to the ratty hair hanging dejectedly to my waist. "Not really my type. I'd console you with the promise of enjoying dear Sherlock later, but it looks like that won't happen either."

That was it. I'd had enough of his stupid taunts. I wanted to know why he'd dragged me out here in the first place.

"You know perfectly well I don't mean shit to Sherlock," I spat, blinking back tears. "He'd scale the moon for John. You don't need me. Why couldn't you just let me be?" I didn't cry but I was damn close and it probably showed in my face. Moriarty certainly picked up on my distress.

"A little extra incentive never did any harm," he said, gesturing to the pool where the memory stick had sunk. "I needed to make a point. Both of you helped splendidly."

"You risked my life for a stupid memory stick that you didn't even want just to prove that this fucked up game you have going is the only thing you care about?" I hissed, rapidly approaching hysteria. "Do the poor old woman and twelve other people you blew up and families you split mean anything to you? You even ruined my dress!"

Sherlock made an odd noise, and Moriarty actually had the gale to laugh in my face.

"Oh, is that what you're so upset about? Hey, don't worry, I can appreciate a fine piece of fashion when I see it. How about I write you a check, hmm? Buy yourself something nice, pick up some more Midol to control those hormones. Women," he said conspiringly to Sherlock. "Always flying off the handle at the teensiest little slip up and spending all your money. It's a useless endeavor, if you ask me."

"I didn't actually," Sherlock replied coldly.

"I don't need Midol _or _a check!" I shrieked, ignoring the dire situation at hand and embracing my imminent temper tantrum with open arms.

"Julia," Sherlock said sharply, giving me an intense gaze that held a heavily implied "shut up now or suffer the consequences." I obediently closed my mouth, legs shaking dangerously. Moriarty appeared to remember the presence of John's arms around his chest. He squirmed.

"Gotcha!" A red dot hovered just below the swoop of Sherlock's curls. I didn't have to look to know a similar one had appeared on me. John stumbled back, lips thin with disappointment. Moriarty smoothed his rumpled suit.

"Westwood," he said, eyes darting to Sherlock's own neatly pressed jacket. "Do you know what happens if you don't back off?"

"Oh, let me guess. You'll kill me," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes.

"N-no, don't be obvious. I'm going to kill you eventually, one day. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. If you don't stop prying, I will _burn _you." His voice turned to a snarl so vicious, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. "I will burn the _heart _out of you."

"I've been reliably informed I don't have one," replied Sherlock.

"Oh, but we both know that's not quite true," Moriarty said, eyes darting from John to me. Sherlock blinked reflexively, his eyes shining with a vulnerability that left me flushing with second-hand discomfort. Seeing him then reacting exactly how Moriarty expected and on the brink of humiliation awoke something furious in me. He seemed, in that moment, just as human as John. I was struck by an idea. Moriarty was looking for a response. He lived for his little fucking mind games. I would give him one, and offer Sherlock a couple seconds to gather himself at the same time. Summoning my resolve, I gasped and fell to the floor, letting my head smack against the tile hard enough to send a shock of white across my line of sight. My eyelids fluttered shut.

"Oh _dear,_" Moriarty said, sounding positively ecstatic. I gave a mental sigh of relief, knowing his attention would be on me for a couple of moments at least and hoping Sherlock might figure something out. I was probably being stupidly hopeful again, but placing my faith in him was the one thing keeping me functioning. If anyone could find an escape route from this nightmare, it was Sherlock. "It seems our damsel in distress is a bit too eager to fill her role."

There were footsteps, then hot spearmint-y breath fogging my cheek. I resisted the urge to recoil in disgust, practically able to hear the grin in Moriarty's voice.

"Ju-lia," he hummed softly. I remained unresponsive, focusing instead on how happy I would be once I made it out of there. Tea and biscuits with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's snappy retorts, my creepy old flat, and maybe even a potential story out of everything that had happened would make it all worthwhile. "Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!" Moriarty snarled, giving my cheek a stinging slap. There was a tight noise from Sherlock's general direction and it took every ounce of my resolve not to shoot up and punch Moriarty straight into next week.

"Unbelievable," Moriarty muttered incredulously, climbing to his feet. "She's actually fainted. Terrible choice, Sherlock. One taste of adventure and Princess Aurora's out like a light. Boo-ring."

"Maybe you should consider not holding her secrets against her if you want her to follow your rules," Sherlock snapped. My heart fluttered.

"Yes, like I said: Boring," said Moriarty dismissively. "Well, I better be off. No reason for me to stick around if Little Miss Estrogen isn't up and ready to bitch at me. Women are delightfully entertaining." My teeth clenched. "So nice to have had a proper chat."

"What if I were to shoot you right now?" said Sherlock sharply. Oh no. What a complete idiot. Don't provoke him further, you fool, just keep your head down and let him fucking _leave. _

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Moriarty said easily. "'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. I really would. And just a teensy bit—disappointed. Of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." Footsteps. I held my breath. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"Catch…you…later," Sherlock said carefully.

"No you won't!" And then the door slammed. The second I was sure Moriarty was good and gone, I leapt to my feet, breathing heavily and fighting against the tears of relief springing to my eyes. Sherlock and John both looked at me in surprise, and I let myself revel in a brief surge of satisfaction at pulling the wool over their eyes too.

"I thought he'd get bored and leave," I shrugged, surprised at how calm my voice was. It sounded like I did this every day. "Or maybe buy you a second to think of a plan."

"You thought correctly, it would seem," Sherlock said before turning his full attention to John. "All right?" he asked urgently, dropping to his knees in front of him (honestly, now is not the time) and throwing off John's jacket.

"Are you all right?" he asked again, giving the vest the same treatment and tossing it aside in utter disgust. John was actually panting, and I looked away quickly, thoroughly uncomfortable at whatever I was witnessing.

"Yeah—Yeah, I'm fine," he breathed, a bit shell-shocked at Sherlock's concern. "Sherlock." Sherlock backed away, turning towards me, and John collapsed against the wall, visibly trembling. I stared back at Sherlock apprehensively, highly doubtful he would actually deign to touch me but nervous all the same. Now, it was his turn to surprise me. He lurched forward awkwardly, fumbling with the buttons on my coat and causing the breath to catch in my throat. It took me a moment to find my voice.

"Sh-Sherlock," I stuttered, flushing brilliantly and taking note that his hands were shaking. "What are you doing? No—stop."

"Dangerous," Sherlock huffed, not entirely coherent himself. I finally reached forward and took both of his wrists in hand, stilling him.

"No, it's just. Moriarty, he took my clothes," I managed to choke out, refusing to look at him. Sherlock stepped back.

"Are you—"

"He left my underwear," I said quickly, turning all shades of red. Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket in one swift movement, shrugging it off and extending it to me without meeting my eyes. John gave a little incredulous huff, looking between us in bewilderment. I shared similar sentiments, and could only stare at his highly expensive, perfectly ironed suit jacket in utter disbelief.

"Take it," Sherlock snapped. I snatched it, swallowing heavily.

"Could you…uh, close your eyes?" I asked hesitantly, trying not to note just how soft the fabric was. Sherlock and John both obliged. I tossed the coat in the direction of John's and folded myself in Sherlock's jacket, crossing my arms to cover up as best I could. It smelled good. Like cologne, and something masculine and musky that sent pleasant little shivers down my spine. I cleared my throat, hoping Sherlock wouldn't pick up on my reaction.

"You can look now." Fuck, that came out sounding more…sensual than I had intended. I blamed it firmly on being enveloped by his scent and tried my best to appear unaffected. Sherlock opened his eyes, but didn't look at me. He began pacing, scratching the back of his head with his gun. "Careful, you'll shoot yourself," I cautioned, having no doubt the thing was loaded and imagining all sorts of gory accidents. Sherlock sent me a look.

"I'm always careful."

"Stranger things have happened, especially when guns are involved," I shrugged. Sherlock frowned.

"You aren't in any position to preach safety," he accused, but pointedly lowered the gun all the same. "What did Moriarty mean when he said you wandered straight into his sniper's trap?"

I winced. John gave a half-hearted noise of warning in an attempt to save me the embarrassment, but Sherlock was not to be deterred. He stared at me expectantly, and I looked at my bare toes, cursing my stupidity for the umpteenth time.

"He planted his sniper outside 221b. I thought he needed a hand carrying some boxes into his flat, so I helped him. He offered me a drugged drink and I accepted it. It was stupid, I know," I said quickly when Sherlock opened his mouth to tell me off. "Please, I'm absolutely furious with myself. I don't need you giving me a hard time too. It's been a really shitty day."

Sherlock closed his mouth, seeming to reconsider what he was about to say.

"Pretending to faint was…uh, clever," he began awkwardly before turning back to John. "And the…thing you offered to do there. That was good." John gave a little huff.

"Thank God no one saw that."

"Hmm?" Sherlock said absently, glancing cagily at the door.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk." I laughed, and Sherlock let loose a chortle of his own.

"People do little else."

And then, because the universe apparently couldn't let us have even a minute of peace and quiet, several incriminating red dots reappeared on John, Sherlock, and me. I gasped in horror, and Sherlock went stock-still, eyes widening imperceptivity. The door swung open, and Moriarty stepped back inside, smiling widely when he saw me standing.

"Oh, has Meryl Streep re-awoken? Nice to see you up and about." He directed his attention at Sherlock. "Terribly sorry boys…and girl. I'm sooo changeable! It is a weakness with me but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but I'm sure everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

"Probably my answer has crossed yours," Sherlock said, eyes narrowing as he raised his pistol and pointed it at Moriarty. He lowered it slowly, aiming it at the two semtex-strapped jackets lying dejectedly on the floor. Moriarty cocked his head, focusing on the heap of cloth. My breathing sped up as I began silently counting, mentally preparing for an explosion that would leave all of us nothing more than four masses of disconnected flesh, _…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…_

"_Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive, ah, ah, ah, ah…"_

Sherlock looked around wildly for the source of the noise, but my eyes were already fixed on Moriarty's pocket. His face held a stony sort of anger reminiscent of a boy being interrupted by his mother's phone-call on the first date. The expression managed to both diffuse the tension and make him a good deal less intimidating.

"Nice ringtone," I said mildly, taking far too much pleasure in this new awkward turning of the tables. "Good to know 70's music isn't dead." Predictably enough, Moriarty ignored me.

"D'you mind if I get that?" he asked, nearly cringing. Sherlock's expression was utterly incredulous.

"Oh no, please," he said, the picture of magnanimity. "You've got the rest of your life." Moriarty rolled his eyes and extracted his phone.

"Hello? …Yes, of course it is, what do you want?" He mouthed a "sorry" at Sherlock, who responded with equal sarcasm. And then, spinning so all three of us could see just how livid he was, Moriarty's voice took another turn for the worse. "_Say that again!" _I cringed back instinctively, glad his rage wasn't directed at me. "Say that again, and know if you're lying to me, I will find you, and I will _skin you. _Wait." He glanced apologetically at Sherlock. "Sorry. Wrong day to die."

"Oh. Did you get a better offer?" Sherlock asked with a nonchalance I envied.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," Moriarty said, equally unaffected. He finally headed towards the door, still muttering into his phone. I caught an ominous threat of "I'll make you into shoes" that left me even more grateful the ordeal was over. The second the door slammed, I sunk to the floor, shaking uncontrollably and paying little heed to Sherlock or John. I stretched out on my back and closed my eyes, ignoring my surroundings and trying to absorb the magnitude of what had just happened. My neighbor had attracted the attention of a complete psychopath who had in turn kidnapped me for the sole purpose of terrorizing us and had made a definite threat to do something equally awful in the future. My stomach turned ominously. I bit down hard on my lip, fighting the feeling that I'd aged a whole decade during one unfortunate encounter and wondering how many grey hairs I'd have by the end of the year if I kept my flat in 221c. Surprisingly enough, it was Sherlock who roused me from my bleak musings.

"Julia?" he prompted, voice surprisingly cautious. I sat up gingerly, gazing at him in utter misery.

"I really got myself in too deep when I took that flat," I said. "That's the second time I've been abducted today. It's a bit much to handle."

"So it would seem," Sherlock said carefully. "Wait, when was the first?"

"Just earlier. Your brother, actually. He offered me money to spy on you, blackmailed me when I showed reluctance, and promised to pay me anyway. I can see where you get your people skills from," I said casually, focusing my attention instead on the pounding in my head that was finally coming after the day's events. "Shit, that hurts," I moaned, pinching the bridge of my nose in an attempt to quell what was becoming a right doozy of a headache.

"How much is he paying you?" Sherlock asked. I shook my head with a bit of an effort, finding it rapidly more difficult to make intelligible conversation.

"Dunno, I told him to work out the logistics. Just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible."

"Sherlock, we should probably think about leaving," John said, bringing Sherlock out of his thoughts abruptly.

"Ah—Yes, that would be wise," he said, turning his attention back to me. "Can you stand?"

I shrugged, clamoring to my feet heavily. My legs were still shaking and I swayed a bit, but was otherwise able to support myself. The headache certainly wasn't doing any favors. John, noticing my struggle, leapt to my side and slung my arm around his shoulder to keep me upright. I winced, remembering a similar situation not too long ago where _he _was the one needing help.

"It's alright, I've got you," he said. "C'mon, let's get you home. Sherlock, a little help?"

"No, it's fine, I can walk," I said, flushing in embarrassment at how weak I was acting. "But I can't go out like this, I'm barely dressed."

"Sherlock, did you bring your coat?" John asked pointedly, ignoring Sherlock's annoyed glare. The coat, apparently, was too sacred for the likes of me. John shook his head in bewilderment. "The one damn time you don't bring it…It's fine, Julia, we'll get a cab, no one will see you."

I let him lead me out into the night, Sherlock trailing us. Breathing in the fresh air greatly invigorated me. I shrugged John off gently, relishing in the fog on my face and breeze in my hair. Sherlock was already hailing a cab, and watching his angular silhouette was quite comforting. He was still there, solid and acidic, having managed to scrape his merry way out of another life or death encounter. I wondered when the next one would arise, and wasn't quite sure if I would be terrified or delighted when it did. The cabbie paid little heed to my near-nudity for a couple extra pounds, and I climbed between John and Sherlock gratefully, snuggling further into Sherlock's jacket and fighting valiantly against the sleepiness overwhelming me. Now that the adrenaline was fading, I couldn't help but feel cozy sandwiched in between the two of them, watching the London night scene flash by in a blur beyond the windows of the cab.

"Well, that certainly beat staring at walls all day," I murmured, suppressing a yawn. John chortled bemusedly, and Sherlock gave a little smirk that could have been the beginnings of the laugh.

"Mycroft will most likely pay you handsomely for spying on me," he said, eyes fixed on the cabbie's head. "I'll tell you what information to feed him, of course. You probably won't need to work at the museum."

"Mmm, you're probably right. But I need something to occupy my time. I can't really do much writing these days. Your antics keep distracting me," I said absently, thinking of my museum shift with distaste. It just seemed so…menial compared to Sherlock's dazzling, terrifying adventures. Even after everything that had happened to me, I still wanted more of his life, his work, just _him. _His mysteries were addictive in their promise of danger.

"You could always help on cases," blurted Sherlock, seemingly regretting it almost instantly as he gazed determinedly out the window. John and I both stared at him incredulously. "Just to help with notes or…coffee," he qualified. "As you've probably determined from his blog, John's writing skills are both appalling and lacking in efficiency, as he generally types with two fingers. And you've proved yourself to have half a brain." The quasi-compliment was more shocking than anything. I flushed an immediate, unforgiving pink.

"O-oh. You're serious?" Sherlock sent me a look, and I shook my head, finding his offer more difficult to process than anything else that had happened that night. "No, really, you aren't just setting me up or something?"

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked, his voice honest enough for me to believe him. I shrugged uncomfortably. Come to think of it, he really wasn't the sort to pull mean practical jokes. Most of the cruel things he said were purely an unplanned product of his social ineptitude.

"No reason. Just—I thought you rather disliked me," I said, flushing even brighter when Sherlock gazed at me in earnest surprise. John snorted.

"He just said you have half a brain. That's nearly a declaration of love in Sherlock language." Oh dear, that didn't help things one bit. Sherlock audibly scoffed, and I desperately willed my cheeks to cool.

"I'd love to help," I said, hoping to redirect things. "With notes or coffee or whatever you need." And again with the over-eagerness. I cringed at my own awkwardness, wishing I could sink into the seat and just sleep.

"Ah, look, we're home," John announced when the cab pulled to a stop. I looked out in surprise and sure enough there was Baker Street, the gold knocker on the door glinting welcomingly under the streetlight. I was struck with a surprisingly strong surge of affection, so relieved to see that familiar black door I could've kissed it. Knowing Mrs. Hudson was inside, probably asleep, but familiar and _present _just the same, and that John and Sherlock were next to me and would be in the future too left me so content with my world in that moment I could barely stand it. It really had become my home somehow, even with all of Sherlock's madness. Madness I was now permitted to help with.

"Why are you smiling?" John asked, frowning at my foolish joy. "You've had a bloody awful day."

"Yes, I have, haven't I?" I said contentedly, still grinning like a loon. Sherlock opened the door, waving us inside.

"She's obviously relieved at no longer having to work at that stupid museum," he said. I snorted, looking around the dim hall fondly.

"You offered me the job in the first place," I reminded him. "But yes, I suppose that is a factor." The exhaustion finally set in full force. I stumbled, yawning twice and realizing that if I didn't get into bed in ten minutes I'd probably end up asleep right there on the hallway rug. "Oh, I'm spent. Goodnight, then. And…thanks."

"Goodnight, Julia," John said kindly, and Sherlock managed to mutter something that might have been a g'night himself. It was enough for me. I gave them one last tired smile before stumbling gratefully down to my flat. Even after everything that had happened that day, I slept soundly that night, content with the knowledge that more mystery and mayhem were in my future.

**A/N: We're finally done with the expository S1, folks! It's going to be pretty original from now until the Irene debacle, and I'm extremely excited to tackle those cases on John's blog. The Romance and Mystery genres will both finally be developing in these upcoming chapters now that I'm not just rehashing the scenes we've seen countless times on the show. The lovey stuff will all be slow and I won't be springing any awkward out-of-the-blue lemons on you readers (I always hate that in OC fics), so worry not. But hopefully you've been picking up on a couple of clues that Sherlock's starting to regard Julia a bit more fondly, and I promise tons of awkward!Sherlock dealing with unwelcome feelings in upcoming material. Because Sherlock is seriously adorable when he's uncomfortable. **

**Anyway, I know this chapter was pretty dull. The pool scene proved hard to keep fresh. Hope you guys review anyway. I live for your feedback, and every single comment I see seriously does a ton to help my writing. And now, I'm afraid to say I have to go on a brief hiatus that will last a month at most. I'm going on vacation to San Diego and probably won't have wifi most of the time, and after that I'll be doing a writing program that will hopefully show an improvement in this story. But stick around, and I'll have the first installment of The Geek Interpreter ready for you in no time!**


End file.
